All Apologies
by EyeofMazikeen
Summary: Now that John knows about his dalliances with the devil, how will Sherlock ever be able to apologize? Well, good thing John has some ideas about that. Johnlock, Sheriarty, Johniarty, Johnlockiarty, MorMor. Pretty much any combination of John, Seb, Sherly, and Jim that you can think of will appear at some point . Sequel to Not A Junkie. Prior read not necessary, but may be helpful.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, and welcome back to my debauched little world! Thanks to some lovely requests and supportive reviewers I've decided to continue the "Not A Junkie" story. So, here is part one of the aftermath! This story can be read alone, I suppose. But the relatively meager amount of smut is at the end. There's a lot of feelings before it, that mostly relate to the events in Not A Junkie. But hey! That's why scroll buttons were invented. Or you can stalk my profile and read Not A Junkie. Whatever makes you happy, dear reader.**

**As always, a huge thanks to my Beta / Grammar Dalek Vivi Vivacious. Bitch, you rule the third world country that is my heart.**

**Disclaimers: I certainly don't own any of these characters, and all respective rights go to the creators (Doyle, BBC, Moffat *shakes fist*, etc). It's all in good (if slightly depraved) fun so please don't sue me. I don't really have much other than my cats anyway, and I'm quite certain you don't want them. They're high maintenance little bastards.**

**Warnings: Hot mansekhs ahead. If that's not your bag, I respect that but I don't think you'll enjoy this fic. And I do have an awesome drinking game I play to hatemail, so feel free to flame away if you want to make me happy and tipsy.**

**Other warnings: Light BDSM overtones, personal gratification, phonesex, Johnlock, implied Sheriarty, and some Johniarty? (Do we have a better word for that yet?)**

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**All Apologies, Pt 1**

Of all the uncomfortable situations Sherlock Holmes had ever found himself in, the train ride home to Baker Street was by far the worst he could recall. He was certain that he must have erased others that were more deleterious, but that meant that this moment reigned supreme. The longer it went on, the more his initial enthusiasm for the unknown situation waned.

He could practically hear Mycroft's voice in his head, reciting his usual speech about consequences that he had been giving Sherlock for as long as either of them could remember. It had never really stuck; actions were exciting and consequences were merely an afterthought. Something to tidy up (or rather, ignore) when the excitement had run its course. Now it seemed consequence hung over his head like the sword of damocles. The unknown was, perhaps for the first time, frightening rather than enticing.

It wasn't just Jim' ill fitting shirt that felt too tight; Sherlock's skin felt a size too small. The inane chatter of other commuters washed over him, more obnoxious to him than normal due to his agitated state. He wanted to bellow at all of them, make them all shut up so he could focus on the problem at hand.

John knew.

The lanky detective had a million questions, and one long fingered hand twitched against his leg as his brain ran through them all at a phenomenal speed. John knew. But for how long? How angry was he? How was it seemingly **so easy** for him to hide his knowledge of Sherlock's occasional dalliances with the devil? Did he find out on his own? Did Moriarty tell him? His questions went on, each inquiry becoming more and more painful each time his brain ran through the list.

Once off the train Sherlock grabbed the nearest cab, which crawled through the thick city traffic. Long fingered hands fluttered against one knee, tapping out an impatient rhythm in a failed attempt at distraction. For him, not knowing was akin to torture. However, once the cab deposited him in front of the shared flat, Sherlock found himself unable to unlock the door and enter.

He steadied himself with one hand on the doorframe. John was his colleague, flatmate, friend, and part time lover. The idea of damaging that, their wonderful arrangement, sent unfamiliar pangs through Sherlock's chest. They were so close to fear, but without the following endorphin rush. No, after these sensations he simply felt hollow. The words from their last conversation rang through his mind.

"_Since you seem to love riding crops so very much, I've gone and found yours. Be prepared. And tell Jim he won't be seeing you again for awhile. I'm going to have you otherwise occupied."_

John had sounded playful, perhaps? But his doctor notoriously covered up anger with other emotions. As much as Sherlock wanted to believe he could simply walk back into the same situation he left, he knew it was impossible. New factors had been added. The equation had changed, and now there would be a different answer to what John plus Sherlock equaled.

Summoning the last dregs of his stubborn determination, he turned the key in the lock and entered the flat.

John sat in his chair, impatient, tapping Sherlock's riding crop against his shin. There would still be another ten minutes or so before the detective made it back to their flat. Perhaps another few for him to compose himself before coming upstairs. He hoped, only half sincerely, that his and Jim's little game wasn't causing his dear detective too much stress.

Sighing, the doctor checked his watch again. Nine or so minutes left. He had been waiting for this day for what felt like forever, and time seemed to be moving impossibly slow just to spite him. At least living with Sherlock had augmented his already significant patience.

Once inside, Sherlock bolted up the stairs two at a time, bursting into the living room.

"John, I..." A familiar sharp crack stopped him mid-sentence. He could see the outline John, holding Sherlock's crop and sitting in his usual red chair, back to the door.

"Come around and have a seat, won't you?" One hand gestured towards Sherlock's seat, the comfortable gray chair across from him. John's voice sounded stern, but not angry. Or did it? Hundreds of different words and observations flickered across Sherlock's mental "screen", showing him the dozens upon dozens of ways that John's body language could be interpreted. He simply couldn't pick one; his lauded objectivism had gone to pieces.

With a sigh half made of resignation, half of anticipation, Sherlock rounded the back of the doctor's chair and settled in his own. His blue eyes flickered over John's familiar frame, reading all he could from the other man's appearance. The ex-soldier was vastly obvious today in his posture and tone. Shoulders straight, gaze even, chin tilted upward to give him the illusion of height even if Sherlock had a few inches on him even while sitting. Even the way John was dressed bespoke of a kind of military efficiency; a simple crisp white t-shirt and a pair of nicely tailored dark jeans. The detective could practically see each year of military service carved into the soft lines of his doctor's face and the harder lines of his body.

John watched him back with equal intensity, blue-gray eyes contemplating Sherlock's uncommon attire. The detective exhaled in relief when he saw the doctor's pupils widen some as they took in his close fitting shirt. It was tight enough on him that it sat just an inch or so above the waistband of his jeans. Playing at feeling exposed, Sherlock bit his bottom lip just a bit and tugged at the hem of his shirt, trying to pull it down over the exposed skin. Instantly, the riding crop shot out, and caught Sherlock none-too-gently on the back of his hand.

"Unless you're planning on taking it all the way off, leave it." No longer playing, Sherlock blushed, a slight pink creeping into his cheeks. "Ah. It's Jim's, isn't it?" The detective's color darkened from pale pink to dusky rose.

"Mmm. That's what I thought. 'Not a terrorist'?" John gave a short chuckle. "It's quite the statement." The doctor leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers and using them to support his chin as he scrutinized Sherlock further.

"John, I..." Sherlock stuttered again, uncertain of how to begin. His flatmate watched him closely, face giving no indication on how to proceed. One elegant hand raked through dark curls in frustration, before he let it drop to his lap. This was more difficult than he had anticipated. The detective had expected John to take the lead, ask questions and provide answers. Without any of that, Sherlock felt strangely adrift. Finally, John's gaze softened some, eyes regaining some of their usual warmth.

"Yes Sherlock?" His voice was gentle, and a small smirk crept into the corners of his mouth.

"I. It's. Well." Words tripped over themselves in his mind in the mad rush to make a coherent sentence. All that came out was a garbled wreck.

"You've been fucking Moriarty." John finally took the lead, showing his partner a bit of mercy. Sherlock visibly flinched at the naked truth in the words. But John's tone wasn't upset. It was an observation, rather than an accusation.

"Well, yes."

"Mmm. Since the pool?" Sighing, the detective hung his head, dark curls falling into his eyes. It made him look impossibly vulnerable, and more than a bit lost. "I'm not angry, you know." That did it. The dark haired man raised his chin in defiance, sapphire eyes flashing.

"Yes John, well what if I am?" His doctor jumped somewhat, not expecting the venom in Sherlock's voice.

"You? You're angry? With me? For god's sake Sherlock, what have_** I**_ done?" John looked positively puzzled.

"How long have you known?" It was less of a question, more of a demand. Sherlock's baritone had dropped to its lowest register, normally reserved for pure pleasure or outright anger. Judging by the narrowed eyes and the way his dark brows were knitted together John guessed it wasn't due to rapture.

"About six months or so. Sherlock, it's not like we've ever been exclusive. This relationship, it's just something we sort of fell into. I never expected or asked you NOT to see other people." Sherlock leveled him one of his trademark flat stares.

"I never caused any trouble about Irene. Certainly you had to realize I knew what was going on there, right?" The mention of The Woman's name was enough to make Sherlock blush again. Deeply.

"Really," John muttered, gesturing with the riding crop. "I'm beginning to think I'm the only one who hasn't had a fair go at you with this yet."

"How did you find out?" This time the Sherlock's voice was less demanding. John merely rolled his eyes.

"I'm not stupid, you know. I knew you were seeing someone else, at least semi-regularly. You went out a lot, without me. It doesn't take a genius. Really, even you can only spend so much time at the morgue." John frowned, and leaned further forward, staring directly into the detective's eyes. "And you're not always so clever. You're always having me send text messages for you. I happened to be holding your phone when you got a rather, ahem, colorful one from Jim."

"Oh."

"Oh? Is that it?" John actually looked pointedly taken aback, or perhaps disappointed. "I was expected something a bit more than 'oh'." The detective leaned further back in his chair, slumping down into the cushions. John smiled a bit. It looked like the taller man was getting ready to have a rather good sulk.

"I texted him back. Told him to call me. Didn't think he would, really. But he did. Strangely enough, I think we had a real conversation. Or as close to one as you can get. He's pretty deranged." Sherlock leveled John with another flat glare, his typical response to the doctor stating the obvious.

John stood up out of his chair, moving forward to Sherlock in two swift steps. The smaller man bent at the waist so his face was level with the detective's and reached forward, pushing a wayward ebony lock out of aquamarine eyes. The contrast in colors was stunning,and for a brief second John's breath caught in his throat at the sight of the detective's pursed lips.

"You're not getting out of this with pouting," he chided. The detective merely rolled his eyes and huffed in response.

"I'm not an impractical man, Sherlock. I know Moriarty fascinates you, and I know how unlikely it is that one person could hold your complete interest." Smiling, he ruffled Sherlock's dark waves, earning him another glare. "And besides, you need something to do while I'm off at clinic. I told Jim as much." Sherlock tried to push himself even further back into his chair. Maybe if he willed it hard enough, the damn thing would just swallow him up completely.

"And yet you didn't say anything to me about it." Surprisingly, his voice sounded bitter. If Sherlock didn't know his own chemical reactions commonly known as 'feelings' so well, he'd have sworn there was an edge to his tone that sounded akin to jealousy. Did he want John to be possessive? Angry about his deception, or rather his omission? It certainly was working out for him that the doctor had a rather enlightened view of relationships. Wasn't it?

"Well, you didn't seem inclined to share. And you do so value being mysterious." John smiled another of his warm smiles, trailing a finger along one of the detective's cheekbones. Sherlock closed his eyes and imperceptibly allowed himself to lean into the touch.

"So, you and Jim conspired to teach me a lesson about transparency, did you?" As hard as he tried, it he had difficulty bringing any heat into his voice with John touching him like that. In fact, he sounded more than a little tremulous.

"Not intentionally. Not at first. But the longer things went on without you telling me..." the doctor's sentence trailed off, unfinished. "Well, yeah. I got a bit peeved. Wanted to show you that I knew." Sherlock glowered, but John met the heat in his gaze. When he spoke again, his voice had lost some of its normal gentleness.

"We're not just fucking Sherlock. We're friends. He's a murderous psychopath. I thought maybe you'd let me know what was going on, if just so I wouldn't have to worry about you every time you went out with product in your hair." Blonde brows wrinkled, and John gave him somewhat of a grimace.

"Plus, he did have me strapped into an explosive vest just to impress you with his introduction. I didn't want to make him feel like he had to compete for your affections, or god knows what mess I would have ended up in."

"I have things under control, John. I told you I'd never let him hurt you again." The dark haired man came close to adding '_don't you trust me?_', but after looking at the rather cross expression on John's face, he thought better of it.

John sighed, hung his head and straightened, pulling his face away from Sherlock's. "Sherlock, you can't pretend to control him anymore than I can pretend to control you. But that's not even the point! You should have told me, for friendship's sake if nothing else. So yeah, I thought up this little scheme and ran it by Jim. Of course he was in, he's got a mean streak and he's a complete nutter." Sensing John pulling away, Sherlock leaned forward to close some of the space between them.

"John," he tried to keep his voice level, but couldn't completely control his tone. Despite its depth, it had a nervous pitch. "You know. So. What happens now?" He gazed up at his doctor through long dark lashes. This was it. The answer that would change everything. All his other questions seemed so inconsequential now. This was the only answer that mattered.

John smiled down at Sherlock, his Sherlock, gazing up at him so earnestly. He'd wasn't angry with his partner, he did mean that when he said it. No one could be so foolish as to expect to capture 100% of the man's attention all the time. But Sherlock, poor Sherlock, didn't know quite what to do with all his feelings yet. The obvious set of his piercing blue eyes made it evident that he was guilty and no small bit afraid of John's answer. The doctor rested a comforting hand on Sherlock's cheek, rubbing his thumb across the detective's full lips.

"Well. I'm quite certain that if you apologize properly, I could be persuaded to forgive you." John had meant to sound playful, joking. He was surprised to find he sounded rough and somewhat predatory. Possessive. He worried for a moment that it would set Sherlock off, but the other man sighed and leaned into his touch, obviously comforted by the idea of absolution.

"Any suggestions as to how I can best apologize, Doctor?" It was good to hear a bit of flirtation in Sherlock's voice again, after hearing naught but uncertainty since the lanky detective had come back to their flat. Things were normalizing. They'd work through this.

"Well," he began, kneeling down so he and Sherlock were somewhat eye to eye. "I have had six months to come up with a plan." Aquamarine eyes glanced over at the riding crop John had left laying next to his armchair.

"No no. That's been done, hasn't it?" Color rushed back to the detective's cheeks. . John could feel the slight rush of heat under his palm. "I want something that's **ours**." The inflection John put on the word 'ours' made shivers run down Sherlocks' spine.

"So," he rumbled in anticipation. "Will you be telling me what you have in mind, Doctor?" A positively radiant smile graced his doctor's face, and Sherlock couldn't help but return it. No matter what was happening, he and John weren't going to lose this. This intimacy. The sex and the friendship and the flatshare. Things may be different, but they'd continue. He almost lost himself in the warmth of the moment, until he heard John's answer.

"I think you should go get your violin, Detective." Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, and his blue eyes fluttered closed for a moment as he contemplated all the different outcomes his doctor's instruction could have. Those same electric blue eyes flashed open as John's strong hand moved up from it's place on Sherlock's cheek to tangle in the black waves just above the detective's temple.

"No drifting off into that labyrinthine mind of yours. Upstairs. Now. Shower, but don't bother getting dressed again. And be back here with your violin in ten minutes." The shorter man stood, offering one solid hand to his partner. Sherlock accepted, long fingers intertwining with his doctor's as he stood. Unexpectedly, John used the momentum of his assistance to pull the detective's body flush with his. A soft gasp escaped Sherlock's lips, which quickly turned into a moan as John's other hand wandered across his abdomen to the quickly-hardening bulge in his jeans.

"And hands off, Sherlock. This," he emphasized the word with a pleasurably rough squeeze. "Is mine. And you'll be relieved of it when I'm satisfied with your apology." John's strong hand shot back up, cupping the side of the taller man's face and pulling him down for a deep kiss. The pressure of John's lips on his was dizzying; Sherlock felt the parlor spin around them. As suddenly as he struck, the good doctor released his captive, removing lips and hands from the other man. His dark haired partner moaned in protest.

"Nine minutes left Sherlock." John's voice was infuriatingly casual as he headed back over to his chair and picked up a book from the table. "Better get to it." And with that he turned away, attention apparently focused entirely on the book in front of him.

Sherlock wasn't entirely certain, because the information would have been discarded long ago, but he would have bet solid money that he had never scaled a set of stairs so fast before in his life.

Once John heard the shower start, he allowed himself to breathe again. God. That had gone surprisingly well. But Sherlock was hungry for his forgiveness, and the blonde man knew that would mean his partner would try every trick in his book and invent a few new ones to get John riled up enough to relent. He smiled to himself, and reached in his pocket for his mobile.

"You still there?"

"Darling I'm absolutely riveted! Where else could I possibly be. They don't make telly this good. This is practically as good as fucking him myself." John rolled his steely blue eyes at the lilting voice on the other end. "We've still got a good seven and a half minutes before he makes it back downstairs. However shall we fill our time, doctor?" Jim practically purred the last word, and John felt it go straight to his groin.

"I could think of a few things," he replied mildly. In response, the consulting criminal barked a short, harsh laugh.

"All those other things you could be doing are currently upstairs. Naked, and dripping wet under the hot spray of the showerhead. God, John. I bet he's even biting down on those sinfully long fingers of his, just to keep from touching himself while he thinks about what you're going to do to him." The blonde man couldn't help it, at Jim's suggestive imagery his breath hitched in his throat.

"The~re we go. That's what I was looking for. Tell me, Doctor Watson. Do you think I can talk you off in our remaining few minutes before our dear detective returns?" Now it was John's turn to laugh, a warm chuckle.

"I'm sure if you really put your mind to it, Jim, you can get me there." His broad hand was already traveling down to adjust himself in his jeans. His fingers brushed against his startlingly hard length as he fumbled with the zip.

"Wellllllll. If that isn't a challenge I don't know what is. Close your eyes doctor, I'm going to paint you a picture..." The consulting criminal's voice became low and husky, and he pitched his breathing so John could hear his short, shallow gasps. The doctor's own breathing and pulse quickened in response.

"You know what Sherlock looks like in the shower, but take a moment to really picture it. The way the water crests off those beautiful black waves. The thin column of his neck upturned to keep his face out of the hot spray. Rivulets of water running down his smooth chest, all leading you downward to exactly where you want to be." John groaned in appreciation, freeing himself from his briefs.

"He's so vulnerable like that, with his eyes closed and every inch of his white skin on display for you. And you've gotten him quite worked up, haven't you?" Jim's voice had slipped into a sultry purr, as if he was also imagining their detective damp and exposed under the hot spray.

"What if he's not listening to your orders, hmm? You know our Sherly is quite the addict. What if, right now, he's leaning those broad shoulders back against the tile, letting one of those perfect hands of his trail down to the hardened length between his legs? And you know John," Moriarty growled the doctor's name, and John's hips bucked up into his own hand at the sound. "He's so fucking hard for you."

"It wouldn't take him long to climax. You know what he's like when he's so stimulated. So sensitive. So easy to push over the edge. Can't you just see him now; completely wanton, those full lips parted as he grips himself and moans your name?" John was gasping, hand squeezing and stroking himself faster as he thought of the sound of Sherlock's voice whispering, begging him for release.

"John, oh Jo-hn..." Jim's impression of the detective was somehow scarily accurate and incredibly arousing. The doctor's hand sped up its rhythm; between the mental image Jim was providing and the sound of the other man's voice he was achingly hard and moments from release.

"You know you'll have to fuck him twice as hard for disobeying you. But you also know that's what he wants, John; your punishing cock inside him, one of those surgeon's hand tugging at his hair as you fuck him into the mattress. Mmf..." the consulting criminal moaned, obviously enjoying himself as much as the blonde doctor he spoke to.

"That's what he'll be thinking about when he comes, you know. Your thick cock inside him. He'll tighten his hands on that glorious shaft of his and those narrow hips will start to stutter, and all of a sudden he'll throw his head back and moan your name. God John, I'm surprised you can't hear him." John's own rhythm was steadily increasing as he worked himself to Moriarty's words. His breathing was short and shallow, and he could hear the smaller man trying to catch his breath and continue. When he did that damnable lilt was singing with sex and satisfaction.

"He'll do that thing with his voice just before he comes, that low panther's growl in the back of his throat. And just when the growl reaches its end, he'll buck those perfect hips again, and those long fingers of his will spasm, that beautiful cock of his will twitch, and suddenly he'll be spilling all over that elegant white hand of his as he groans your name again, and again, and aaaah-gain, a-a-and... aaaaah" John heard Moriarty's voice hitch with pleasure, and it was obvious that the man was climaxing. The sound was enough to push the doctor over the edge, and he came with a shudder and a groan.

Silence stretched through the next few seconds, and suddenly Jim piped up again in a completely natural voice, as if he hadn't just talked John and himself over the edge.

"Doctor, I do believe you have just shy of two minutes to get yourself cleaned up before the real show begins." The criminal's voice was tinged with smug satisfaction.

"James Moriarty, I have half a mind to take you over my knee and knock some of that arrogance right out of you."

"Hmmm. Accurate on the half a mind observation. And still somehow appealing, but you'd have to catch me first. Now unless you're planning on having our lovely Sherlock clean up your mess with that devilish mouth of his, I suggest you put me down and go get a towel." John went to hang up the phone, but was interrupted by Moriarty's tinny voice pushing one last word in.

"And Doctor Watson. Do be a dear and leave the phone on for me won't you? My flight to Prague isn't out until tomorrow morning and hotel porn is sooooo ordinary." Smiling to himself, John clicked through his phone, turning on the video function before setting it down on the coffee table, propped up against his book. The angle gave Moriarty an excellent view of the detective's chair.

"I can do you one better," he whispered into the phone, before turning the screen off. As if on cue, Sherlock began descending the stairs to the parlor, clad only in his navy dressing robe. His elegant fingers clutched his beloved violin and bow, and he looked at John with no little trepidation.

"John?" That baritone was low and even, but the doctor had known his detective long enough to pick up the slight hint of uncertainty behind the word.

"Sherlock. Why don't you come over here and have a seat," he replied, gesturing at the chair across from him. As the lanky detective crossed the parlor, John changed his mind.

"Actually. I have a better idea. Put your things down and come here," one broad hand gestured at the space between his feet and the table. "I have one thing for you to take care of before you begin your apology." The detective's sapphire gaze eyed him questioningly. Sherlock set his violin and bow down on the coffee table before kneeling in front of John, who extended his hand, palm up, to the detective. Blue eyes widened as he identified the telltale traces of fluid on the doctor's palm.

"I know you Sherlock, and I know you're going to test my limits. So I thought I'd give myself an advantage. A head start, if you will." John's cheeks colored slightly at his own words, but he continued. "But I've made a bit of a mess, you see. And I think that it's only fair since you're the one who's vexing me that you should be the one to help me clean it up."

The detective before him lowered his head slightly, gazing up at John through long lashes. Without a word, he drew the doctor's hand towards his mouth and licked a line up from his wrist to the tip of his middle finger. John shuddered slightly at the touch, then gasped as his detective took the tip of his finger into his mouth. Sherlock swirled the tip of his tongue over the pad of John's finger before taking it into his mouth completely. Long fingers fastened on a tanned wrist, and the dark haired man held his partner's hand stationary as his head bobbed up and down, simulating exactly the kinds of motions that John enjoyed the most in his fellatio.

Once the middle finger had been thoroughly cleaned, Sherlock let his tongue slide back down to the blonde's broad palm, tracing concentric circles across the roadmap of lines. He flicked his tongue over John's heartline, tracing it upward from the outside of his palm to it's resting point between the index and middle finger. He then licked a slow line up John's index finger, spiraling once he reached the tip. Pink lips split in a smile as John groaned his appreciation of Sherlock's talents and the detective mouthed the finger down to it's root. Over and over he sucked, gently letting his teeth graze the sensitive webbing of skin between those thick but dexterous fingers. He repeated the motion with the remaining two fingers on John's hand, before placing an almost chaste kiss in the center of the blonde man's palm.

"Better?" His detective's rich baritone brough John back from the haze of pleasure that silver tongue had worked him into. Taking a few deep breaths to steady himself, he nodded.

"Much. Now undo your robe, take your instrument and go have a seat. I think it's about time you properly apologized."

While picking up his violin from the table, the detective noticed John's phone propped up against a book, camera lense pointed directly at his chair. So. The good doctor was having him entertain an audience. As much as he had hoped his apology to John could be completely private, it also secretly thrilled him that Jim was more than likely watching them. He suppressed a full body shudder, but gooseflesh still raised on his arms and the back of his neck. The entire room hummed with an undeniable electric energy.

John's stormcloud blue eyes held him fast to his seat, and he held his violin and bow awkwardly, almost as if he had forgotten how to handle them. God, John's eyes. They were mere slivers of color now, almost all pupil as he raked them hungrily over Sherlock's seated form. Swallowing hard, the detective finally managed to find his voice.

"And now?" As hard as he tried to maintain some kind of calm, his voice came out wispy and ethereal with questions and wanton expectations. John merely chuckled in response.

"Now Sherlock, your apology can truly begin."

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**Thanks for reading! I'll try to have the next part out next week. Hopefully Sherlock won't be too uncomfortable until then. : ) As always, reviews and favorites will be kept in the Lemarchand's box that I call a heart (which lives in my freezer) and treasured for all time.**

**Ta!**

**Mazi**


	2. Chapter 2

**Sometimes it's completely awesome when social engagements fall through. Why? Because then it's porntime, that's why. Woohoo! I wasn't expecting to be able to get this next chapter out so quickly, but the boys have kind of hijacked my brain. They've eaten all my unexpected free time. I'm not complaining. Just observing. : )**

**Disclaimer: I still don't own any of the characters, or anything of value to be sued for. Damnit.**

**Warnings: Detective on doctor action (they're both boys, gasp!), light BDSM, light breath play, a tiny bit of voyeurism and classical music references.**

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**All Apologies, Pt 2.**

John eyed his lean detective as he settled into the chair before him, smiling in appreciation at the slight flush that crept up the marble pale chest and neck to highlight those damnable cheekbones. Sherlock blushed further under the scrutiny, and busied himself righting his violin and bow, getting into a comfortable playing position.

"I'm assuming you're going to want me to play at some point?" His deep voice was colored with lust and a small amount of amusement. The blonde man before him nodded in response, standing and walking around to the back of Sherlock's chair. He carded his fingers through the detective's dark waves, leaning down to whisper into his ear.

"I think that'd be a good start, Sherlock." The raw lust in John's voice sent sparks of pleasure shooting down the detective's long spine. He could feel himself stirring under his robe in anticipation of whatever his doctor had planned.

"Do you have any requests?" Sherlock leaned into the broad hand in his hair, arching his neck like a cat. John pursed his lips in contemplation, concentrating for a moment before making a decision.

"Something by Paganini."

"Ah. A Caprice. Do you have a particular one in mind?" John ran his hands down Sherlock's shoulders, pushing off the blue robe that covered them. The detective shivered at the contact.

"Performer's choice. But Sherlock?" Moving one hand back up the taller man's long neck, John pressed his fingers against that perfect chin, turning Sherlock's face to the side, leaning over the back of the chair so he could meet his partner's icy blue gaze.

"Impress me." By the doctor's tone it was an order, not a request. Blue eyes flickered shut for a moment as Sherlock perused his music library. Finally setting on the right piece, he hummed a bit in satisfaction.

He turned his face away from John almost reluctantly, lowering his chin to his violin. Long fingers began to move on the strings, and he drew back his bow, the first notes of Caprice No. 11 echoing through the flat. The beginning was perfect for his mood; happy with a touch of anxious energy. John cocked his head, listening appreciatively for a moment before coming around to stand in front of Sherlock's chair.

"Don't stop playing." John's voice was warm and dark, his order to Sherlock full of implications. The detective kept his blue eyes shut, focusing on the music at hand. When those strong, familiar hands began to tug open his robe, though, he couldn't help but gasp. His bow skittered lightly across the strings, causing a discordant strain of notes to fill the parlor. Immediately the doctor withdrew his hands, instead moving one up to possessively cup the side of Sherlock's throat not currently occupied by his instrument. He gave a gentle but firm squeeze, and the lean detective almost let his head roll back in pleasure. Sherlock's electric eyes shot open at the contact.

"Focus, Sherlock. The performance is my apology from you." The dark haired man nodded, swallowing hard, gazing into the steel blue eyes measuring him. "You do want it to be a good apology, don't you?" Sherlock nodded again, and John's hand tightened just enough to make the taller man's breath begin to feel constricted.

" I asked you a direct question, Sherlock."

"Mm...ahh. Yes. Yes, John." His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed and gasped, and John's hand tightened a little more around the pale column, pressing his fingers into the detective's windpipe. The edges of the detective's vision started to darken, and he felt his pulse hammering desperately in both his throat and his cock. Sherlock tried again, baritone rumbling against John's fingers, indicating that the jumble of words wasn't enough.

"I want to apologize to you properly." He managed to get the words out in the right order without dropping the melody. John gave one final, affectionate squeeze to Sherlock's lean throat.

"One more time," he whispered. Sherlock may have been the one with his breathing constrained, but John found himself lost in his own kind of delirious dizziness. The smells of the flat assailed his senses; tea and old books, with the undertone of something acidic and unidentifiable. He leaned forward, breathing Sherlock in. His detective smelled of his earthy shampoo and that indefinable essence that was simply **Sherlock; **part spice, part antiseptic, and part pure pheromonal lust.

"John... I... want... to... properly... perform... for.. you.. as... aaaahhnnn... apology..." To his credit Sherlock managed a full, iif unsteady, sentence. John caught the slight hint of tobacco on his partner's breath, and let his broad fingers constrict again, pressing his thumb into the hollow at the base of Sherlock's aristocratic throat. He pushed up gently, pressing against the taller man's windpipe and holding pressure there for a moment before allowing his thumb to trail back down. The broad digit played against the divot of sensitive between those lovely, sweeping collarbones causing the dark haired man to shudder and tilt his head back slightly, exposing more of his vulnerable throat to his doctor in a gesture of submission.

"You've been smoking, I see. We've had words about this before Sherlock." Full lips parted as the detective sighed in apology, sounding more sorry for being caught than for actually indulging his addiction.

"I'll... ah...I'll make it up to you, John," that rich, deep register was full of promise. John felt the vibrations of the other man's throat travel through his arm, course through his chest, and tug at his groin.

With those words John's strong digits withdrew. Sherlock took a deep breath, desperate to gather what remained of his tattered concentration before continuing. It didn't help one bit that John's assault on his neck left him breathless from more than just the constriction. The detective could feel his blood rushing downward, making his cock stiffen in anticipation. Shaking his head to clear his mind as best he could, the raven haired man went back a few bars and started to play again, eyes closed once more and full lips set in a grim line of determination.

His doctor waited a few more moments before beginning again, deft hands undoing the belt of Sherlock's robe, pushing it open to pool against his milky white thighs. The contrast of dark blue fabric and pale skin made John lick his bottom lip in anticipation. Light and shadow; the two sides of Sherlock. He ran the calloused pads of his fingers along the inside of the detective's thighs, smiling to himself and he watched his lover's flesh jump under his touch.

As John caressed the insides of his thighs, the detective clenched his eyes shut even tighter, desperately focusing all his attention on the Caprice. Adroit ivory fingers kept his bow moving on the violin, melody ringing out through the flat. He found himself perilously close to the end of No. 11, and John hadn't given any indication that he was satisfied yet. It seemed logical to continue to go in order. As the last strains of 11 rang through the flat, he felt his doctor kneel down in front of the chair.

Shakily, he recalled the music for Caprice No. 12. The progression of notes nearly slipped his mind as John leaned down, letting his warm breath ghost against Sherlock's now exposed, quickly hardening length. One sweep of that skilled tongue up the underside of his cock was all it took to bring the detective fully to attention. John smirked as his partner's length danced in anticipation, and he began to steady his breathing, allowing each exhalation to caress over the sensitive skin.

"Keep going, Sherlock. I'm quite enjoying this tune." The dark haired detective could feel the blonde's lips brushing against his tip with every word, and it was all he could do not to simply toss his instrument down, take John's head in his hands, and beg him for more contact. Fingers shaking with effort, he continued to play, biting down on his bottom lip. The pain focused him, and for a single moment he almost forgot about the doctor kneeling before him. That was until John took the velvety smooth head of his cock into his mouth, running his tongue in circles against the sensitive glans.

The taller man's lean torso convulsed at the touch, as he fought desperately to keep proper time. It was too much information, overwhelming sensations washed over him as John continued to work just his head with his hot, wet tongue. Struggling to maintain his breathing, Sherlock noticed the sweeps of John's tongue danced in time with strains of music from his violin. The thought caused his hips to buck forward involuntarily; John sucking him off to this amazingly perverse symphony was almost too much to bear. Strong fingers pinched the soft flesh on the inside of his left thigh in admonition.

The sharp sensation caused his cock to throb painfully, and John's thumb began to trace small circles around the bit of tormented flesh in a soothing gesture. The detective let out a breath he didn't know he was holding only to suck it back in as John drew his mouth back, swiping his tongue back and forth across the detective's slitted opening, gathering the precum there. He put his lips against the very tip, and hummed in appreciation as Sherlock's whole body trembled in pleasure.

"You taste so fucking good," the blonde moaned, his mouth brushing against Sherlock's length with every syllable. The detective made a pleading sound in the back of his throat as John pulled back, taking in the full sight of his tormented lover.

Sherlock's brow glistened with a thin sheen of sweat, dark curls beginning to stick to his temples. His blue eyes were screwed shut in concentration, making the space between his eyebrows crinkle in exactly the way that John liked best. It was better than seeing Sherlock absorbed in a case. His detective was so intense, so focused, so completely involved in the moment. It made his heart swell to see Sherlock so devoted to pleasing him.

The taller man's body was arched slightly in the chair, hips canted towards John even as his nimble fingers flew across the strings of his violin. Without the immediate stimulation of John's mouth his expression had softened some; that fine boned face looked positively angelic leaning against the warm curve of his instrument, in stark contrast with the wanton spread of his legs and hard, weeping length pushing up against his abdomen.

"Why Sherlock, I'm beginning to think that you really are sorry for keeping me in the dark." John reached forward, letting the back of his knuckles run up the underside of his detective's erection. The lanky violinist moaned something that might have been a 'yes', arching his hips toward the doctor's touch, seeking more contact.

"Steady, love." John's voice was firm, but Sherlock could hear the affection in it. His head spun, and stars danced behind his eyelids. God, the things John could do to him. Not just the physical sensations, but the feelings. It was deliriously disconcerting; but his heart fluttered in his chest at the sound of his doctor's approval.

He was approaching the end of Caprice no. 12, and he cracked his sapphire eyes open to gaze imploringly down at the stockier man in front of him. Surely John could feel how sorry he was, how badly he needed the absolution of release. But the doctor merely shook his blonde head.

"Keep going, Sherlock." A pained cry escaped the taller man's throat at the thought of continuing on under such heavenly vexation. John smiled, and ran one hand up and down Sherlock's thigh in a soothing gesture.

"You can do this." His doctor's words were strangely encouraging, almost comforting. If John said he could do it, he could do it. He took a deep breath and refocused, tearing the sheet music for the next piece from the haze in the back of his mind. After a moment's pause, those expert digits began to move, and the beginning strains of Caprice no. 13 began.

Sherlock's bow skipped across the strings, and he smiled to himself. Since meeting John it had become one of his favorites. The beginning of this piece had come to remind him of the first time he and John had laughed together, giggling like schoolgirls at their first crime scene together. As the melody became more complex, he saw John lean towards him him again, blue grey eyes sparkling with mischief.

Once more, that delicious mouth enveloped the head of his cock. Sherlock gasped as John quickly took him all the way in, tightening his lips and hollowing his cheeks, pulling back softly until just the head remained in the hot cavern of his mouth. The detective found that he was able to keep time with his own groans and gasps, desperately trying to keep his hips still and his fingerwork accurate.

His doctor repeated the tantalizing motion, grazing the base of his shaft oh-so-lightly with his teeth before pulling back again. John released Sherlock from his lips, causing a keening noise to emanate from the detective's pale throat. The good doctor replaced his mouth with his hand, making sure to work the head first, ensuring that he used the generous amount of precum Sherlock produced to further slick his aching length. Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head, as his fingers practically moved on auto pilot. If he had a coherent thought to spare he would have thanked any deity he could think of for the wonders of muscle memory.

With John working him like that, it would have been impossible for him to stop playing. The sensation of his fingers moving across the strings seemed to be inexorably tied to the strong hand below him; and he desperately ached to keep John's hand going. The dark haired man reached the end of no. 13 and launched himself directly into no. 14.

Though it was normally a stately piece, the melody those dexterous fingers produced was nearly frantic. Sherlock could almost hear the pleading he was pouring into the tune. His fingers dashed through chords like a runaway train, crashing through note after note in desperation. Sherlock knew that he'd do whatever it took to keep his doctor's hand working at him like that. John worked in a few delightful twists, pulling the sensitive skin taut before resuming his strong, determined strokes.

The good doctor tightened his fist as he worked slowly down the detective's cock, loosening his grip as he moved his hand up, only to tighten again on the downstroke. Sherlock's voice had broken free from the tightness of his throat, and he gasped out meaningless fragments of words and incoherent syllables as that tormenting surgeon's hand increased its tempo.

Suddenly the sensation was gone; John withdrew his hand and the dark haired violinist released an animal growl. "John, please..." he managed to moan during an easier bit of the melody.

"If you insist. Don't stop playing." And with that he felt John lower that wicked mouth back down between his thighs, taking his overstimulated length back in to the root. The hand that had previously been wrapped around the detective's erection worked it's way between the navy dressing gown and the curvature of the taller man's posterior. Sherlock's hips jerked uncontrollably as a finger slicked with precum, sweat and saliva began lightly circling the taut ring of muscle.

No. 14 came to a close, and Sherlock transitioned seamlessly into the next Caprice. No. 15 was difficult under the best of circumstances, but with John's mouth bobbing up and down on his cock as he mercilessly teased his opening, it was almost beyond the detective's talents. Sherlock dropped a few notes, and he tensed until he realized that John hadn't noticed at all. Somewhere in the back of his already overwhelmed mind he knew that Jim was watching, and the imperfection would bother him immensely. Somehow, the thought simply made him harder.

A deep moan reverberated through the parlor as the doctor pushed his finger in, stopping at the second knuckle to give his detective some time to relax around the rapturous intrusion. Waves of desire ripped through Sherlock's nervous system, and his mouth went dry with the effort of continuing his performance. His entire pale body trembled, stress of the endeavor tightening every muscle and making his breath come in shallow, uneven gasps.

The dark haired man felt John suppress a smile as he worked his digit slowly in and out of the violinist a few times before pulling back and adding another finger. Those deftly cunning digits began to scissor and stretch, kneading gently against the taller man's prostate. Desperately, Sherlock's hand tightened on his bow, grasping for something solid and real to anchor him to the music as his stocky partner's ministrations threatened to carry him away from conscious thought completely. No. 15 transitioned into No 16, and it was only the change in music that kept him from spiraling over the edge.

Hooking them in the particular way he knew Sherlock went mad for, John pressed directly against the taut bundle of nerves and held the pressure there for just a second before releasing. The lean detective murmured something unintelligible as his body shuddered, waves of pleasure coursing through his very being at the touch.

John repeated the motion, pressing up against his detective's sweet spot. He couldn't help it, the way that Sherlock sounded when he touched him roused him beyond his wildest imagining. It was as if each dulcet, baritone moan was a string attached directly to the blonde man's cock. With each whimper Sherlock produced he could feel his erection strain forward, jumping in time with each tremulous gasp that escaped from those perfect, full lips.

He was achingly hard, straining against the front of his jeans as if he hadn't just reached culmination not twenty minutes before. Sherlock Holmes made him as horny as a damn teenager, with those long white legs splayed out, grinding himself back onto John's strong hand as his own dexterous fingers fought to keep playing as his doctor had demanded.

The melody started to stutter as Sherlock began to drop notes, and John finally had pity on his tormented partner. He released the detective's throbbing length from his lips, but kept his fingers working inside him. Using his free hand, he reached up and laid his hand atop Sherlock's, stilling the frantic movements of his bow.

"That," he gasped, surprised at how thick his voice was with lust, "was an amazing performance. Sherlock. You can stop now. Let me do the rest." He pried the bow from alabaster fingers and set it aside, then gently took the violin and laid it on the coffee table with reverence, all while still working his hand inside Sherlock. Once the instrument had been taken from him, Sherlock seemed to sink into a complete state of nearly-catatonic bliss, head rolling back on sculpted shoulders as if he no longer possessed the strength to hold it up. That rich baritone moaned John's name over and over again like a prayer or a plea. It was one that the good doctor was more than happy to oblige.

John bent his arm, still thrusting strong fingers into the taller man in a relentless rhythm. He brought his lips to Sherlock's chest, placing one single kiss over the writhing detective's heart before lowering his head back down to take his turgid length back into his mouth.

Sherlock nearly screamed as wetness and heat of John wrapped around him. Without the performance to distract him, he could feel every meticulous motion of John's tongue and lips against his cock. It was too much, he was too close. He had reached the very end of his limits, and John's sweet mouth dangled him over a bottomless precipice, yet still denied him the release that was his only salvation. Finally, the dark haired detective felt the head of his cock hit the back of John's throat, and the soft impact knocked the last of his self control from his grasp.

John's strong hands steadied Sherlock's hips as they began to oscillate wildly, any sense of rhythm abandoned in the sheer carnal act of thrusting into his doctor's mouth. Softly, the blonde began to hum around the heated thickness in his mouth, sending jolts and vibrations crashing through Sherlock's groin. The violinist felt the familiar, astounding pressure building at the base of his spine, white hot lines of firey of pleasure coursing through his abdomen. He felt all the burning threads meet at the base of his cock, fire rushing through his vein, and he as he felt his scrotum tighten as his hips danced along with the exacting strokes of his partner's mouth With a startling cry his narrow hips bucked again, stuttering uncontrollably as the detective shuddered into orgasm. Blissful white washed over his vision as full lips parted, singing John's name as he emptied himself into his partner's willing throat.

The doctor continued to work him throughout his orgasm, carefully milking every last drop of fluid from his detective as if he could suck all the words right out of Sherlock through his dick along with his semen. Guessing by his partner's speechlessness, perhaps he had succeeded. He released the taller man from his lips, resting his head against the pale flesh of Sherlock's thigh as he caught his own breath. He could hear the dark haired man's heartbeat as it thundered through his arteries, finally carrying blood back up to that beautiful, complicated brain. After a few moments of laying together in silence, Sherlock finally found his voice again.

"Good?" There was such vulnerability in the question. John's heart battered against his ribcage, swelling with affection. It was a wonder that nobody (well, hardly nobody) else got to see this side of his detective. Underneath the veneer of his ego and accomplishments, there were still the cracks of uncertainty left over from years of being outcast. The thought of the taunts Sherlock must have suffered, still suffered, made John's vision temporarily haze over with crimson. How could those fucking idiots even known what they had missed? The kindness, the dedication, the unyielding friendship that his detective had to offer. He almost lost himself down that twisted path of anger and accusation, until Sherlock's voice brought him back from his contemplation.

"John?" He opened his eyes and looked up into the fine boned face above him. The sweet, nearly fragile smile that Sherlock gave him was too much. He climbed up into the chair with the taller man, snuggling tightly against him.

"Very good," John confirmed, nuzzling his head into the curvature of where Sherlock's elegant neck and sculpted shoulder met. A flurry of light kisses graced the pillar of marble skin, and John savored the salty taste of Sherlock's sweat as traced his tongue along the taller man's jugular. Dear Sherlock had really poured everything he had into his performance. Strong fingers stroked dark curls, sweeping them gently off Sherlock's forehead and out of his beautiful eyes.

"Very, very good. Apology accepted, love." he murmured, continuing to twine his fingers in the raven halo of the detective's unruly waves.

"Does that mean you'll be taking care of this yourself?" that deep baritone was rich with lust and a small amount of satisfaction. Long, pale fingers reached down between his doctor's legs to caress the prominent bulge in Watson's jeans, causing the other man's compact body to arch forward into his touch.

"Aah." John moaned and smiled at the same time, nipping lightly at Sherlock's neck in admonition. "That was just your apology. Now we move on to the makeup sex." Raven waves bobbed as the detective nodded in agreement, temporarily pulling himself away from his doctor to grab the mobile sitting on the table.

Long fingers flickered over the screen, turning it on. Unsurprisingly, a video image of a rather disheveled Jim smiled back at him.

"So good to see you enjoying yourself, truly." Sherlock's voice was dry, but his lips still curved in an actual smile. Jim had no pithy reply; the detective had caught him mid gasp in an effort to catch his breath, black pupils blown wide and cheeks flushed with satisfaction.

"Still, the good doctor and I would like a moment of privacy, if you don't mind." Moriarty nodded and smiled a toothy grin that held only the merest hints of foreboding.

"I do recall telling you that once I finished my dinner I'd do something so dastardly that you wouldn't be bored for weeks." Jim's breath was heavy against the phone speaker, lilt coming across in whispers and static. "Are you still bored, Detective?"

John chuckled and rolled his eyes, and Sherlock merely smiled. Jim had indeed warned him, but this hadn't even crossed his mind as an option when the madman casually mentioned his plan. Jim quirked a dark eyebrow at the laughing couple on the other end of the screen.

"Off you go boys, off you go. I'll catch you later."

"I'm sure you will," Sherlock rumbled. With that he turned the phone off, tossing it across the room, turning his face towards John. His doctor met him with a deep kiss, tracing his tongue over Sherlock's teeth before pulling back, standing up, and offering the detective his hand.

"Let's go upstairs, shall we?"

**For anyone interested, you can hear the start of Sherlock's violin performance by going to YouTube and searching for Paganini, Niccolo; Caprice No. 11. There should be a video result for Caprices no. 11, 12, 13 & 14, op. 1 as performed by Rudolf Koelman. The music is breathtaking (though there is some rather jarring applause noise after the first Caprice, which... hmm... public performances... ). If you crave the rest, I recommend following up with Caprices No. 15, 16, 17 & 18.**

**Soo... what to do now? Should I write Jim's reaction to watching John and Sherlock's performance, or should I simply dive right into the 'makeup' sex?! Decisions, decisions. Suggestions are always welcome, so feel free to hit me with your opinion, demand, or request and I'll see what I can concoct. I'll try to get the next part out sometime mid-next-week-ish. Until next we meet, my smutty darlings!**

**Mazi**


	3. Chapter 3

**Who needs sleep when you can write smut! That's my new motto. I'm going to get it on a t-shirt. This chapter is un-betaed, as Vivi is very likely asleep and I really want to hear what kind of squee noises she leaves for me as a voicemail when she realizes I posted the next chapter. This one's for you, you crazy slut.**

**Disclaimer: I (A) still don't own any of these characters, (B) am still too poor to effectively sue, and (C) still find flames hilarious.**

**Warnings: Man on man action, BDSM, breath play, spanking, and probably a lot of passive voice and adverbs.**

* * *

**All Apologies, Pt 3.**

A testament to his level of arousal, the normally composed John only managed to get his black haired detective about halfway up the stairs before turning around and pushing him against the wall, ravaging his mouth with an intense kiss. The detective chuckled lightly into the kiss, as if he had expected it. Standing on the step above Sherlock, they were of a similar height, with John perhaps having a slight advantage. Using this to his favor, the stocky blond tangled his strong fingers in Sherlock's dark waves, yanking the other man's head back without a hint of gentleness, biting down on Sherlock's lower lip in warning before pulling out of the embrace.

"Getting a little sure of ourselves, aren't we? You're still in trouble, you know. For the smoking."

"Well, John. If this..." Sherlock growled and shuddered as his doctor twined those strong fingers even deeper into his hair and gave a slow, hard pull that made his knees weak. "Ah... if this is my punishment, remind me to pick up the habit more often."

In response, John gave one more leisurely tug on the detective's locks. The taller man moaned as his legs buckled, and he leaned his weight against the wall to keep from toppling over into John's arms.

"You always get a bit extra masochistic when you're this worked up," the doctor commented mildly. He squeezed his hand again, not pulling but simply tightening his grip. A slight whine escaped the detective's mouth, the noise practically begging John to pull again. Aquamarine eyes fixed on stormy blue, entreating the shorter man to keep going.

"Well, come on then," he growled in response to Sherlock's unspoken request. And with that, the doctor's unyielding fingers tightened again as John adjusted his grip, beginning his trek back up the stairs. The taller man behind him hissed in pleasure and stooped slightly, allowing John to drag him up the stairs, down the hallway, and into the good doctor's bedroom.

Once inside John stood stock still, taking in the room. It was so unlike any bedroom that he had ever had, and yet it felt right. Sherlock's books were strewn about, and despite John's best intentions clothing littered the floor; most items having been deposited there after being hurriedly stripped in a heated moment. With some amusement, the doctor noted that one of Sherlock's antique microscopes had made its way to the top of John's dresser. An equally old box of slides sat next to it, and he imagined that Sherlock had moved them in on a night where he couldn't sleep but didn't want to be away from John. The thought made him warm and he fought the urge to pull Sherlock up into a genuine hug.

The bed that took up most of the room was a large four postered monstrosity Sherlock had picked out for him as a birthday gift about a year ago. Not that the detective would ever admit it, of course. He made some insouciant comment about hating to sleep in John's room because his mattress was a plank of wood, but it hadn't escaped the stocky blonde's attention that the bed had been delivered the day before his birthday. And then broken in quite thoroughly the day of, despite the fact that Sherlock hadn't mentioned his birthday even once.

His lean detective stood next to him, head craned at an awkward angle because of the doctor's hand entwined in his hair. John pulled him closer and traced his tongue along the milky length of that beautiful neck, before giving a sharp tug and ordering "Down." The taller man immediately dropped to his knees in front of the ex-captain, a motion fluid from practice. Once down, he cocked his head to one side, gazing up at John almost haughtily from underneath his long dark lashes.

"Well, John Watson. Here you have me, naked and on my knees in your bedroom. And there you are, fully clothed." One elegant dark brow quirked, and blue eyes pointedly fixed on the zip of John's denim. "Do you you want me to deduce what comes next?"

John smiled in response; it felt good to see the post-orgasm insecurity fading away and the usual snarkiness replacing it. For all he claimed not to, Sherlock was such a believer in gestures, and John's way of making him apologize (and accepting the apology) had put them back on more familiar ground.

The doctor released his grip on Sherlock's hair, tracing one finger down the detective's sculpted jaw as he drew his hand back to his side. "Oh. Please do." His voice was thick with a combination of amusement and lust.

"Well, first you'll have me move forward," Sherlock's voice was hypnotic, all posh accent and deep undertones of yearning. As he spoke the words, he moved forward on his knees until his nose was nearly touched the prominence in his partner's jeans. John simply exhaled and folded his arms behind him, the beginnings of a moan at the back of his throat. The detective's full mouth smiled in response; John may be in control but he wasn't exactly powerless, even when firmly under John's thrall.

He moved his cunning lips against the zip, hands traveling to John's hips to steady himself. "And once you have me in position, I'm certain that you'll order me to undress you with my teeth." Sherlock allowed his deep voice to hitch slightly, conveying his eagerness to the man before him. Without hesitation, he wrapped his mouth against the button at the top, biting the fabric as he worked the catch with his tongue. It took a few tries, but he eventually worked the brass stud through the buttonhole. John clasped his hands behind his back in a military style rest, gazing down at Sherlock with no small amount of avidity in his eyes.

The lean detective did his best to hold eye contact as his adroit tongue flicked the pull on the zipper up. Once it was exposed, he took the bit of metal in his teeth and slowly began to pull down. Long fingers felt a tremor in John's hips as the other man tried not to grind into the light pressure Sherlock created. The sleuth made sure to breathe through his mouth, panting heavily as he moved over John's groin. Sturdy hips shook again, but the dark haired man pulled away from his partner before any further action could be taken.

With the closures undone, Sherlock moved his teeth to the corner of the opening, peeling it back slightly before moving to the other side and doing the same. John's pants were partially exposed now, his hardened member throbbing mere centimeters from the detective's lips. Still, the doctor held his position, posture full of surety. Self control. Something had to be done about that. Full lips and an elegant long nose brushed up against the doctor's iron cock, nuzzling against it slightly before moving his lips up to John's hip, taking one belt loop in his teeth. At the contact, John grunted and his leg faltered slightly.

Sherlock had to bite back a smirk. It pleased him to no end to have tangible evidence that Doctor Watson's unbridled lust matched his own level of desire. Being able to push the smaller man to the limits of his self control was one of the most delicious experiences that the violinist ever had, and he craved to see the cracks forming in John's calm facade.

Tugging gently at the belt loop, he began moving the doctor's jeans down his thighs. When he had pulled the fabric as far as it would go he moved to the other hip, allowing his face to brush up against John's throbbing erection once again. This time, solid hips positively bucked into the contact, and John moaned deep in his throat. Sherlock kept moving, slowly but surely working the jeans off his partner inches at a time, moving his face back and forth against the blonde's groin when it became necessary to switch sides.

After the jeans had been pulled down to mid thigh, Sherlock leaned back to admire his work. John was positively strained through his pants, breathing shallow and eyes closed in rapture. John. His John. Undoing him was so different that unraveling Jim. John, for all his seeming straightforwardness was complicated in ways that Sherlock didn't, couldn't understand. Still waters run deep, the saying went, and with John it was very true. The smaller man's solid and composed exterior covered the far deeper torrents of emotion and hedonism that ran under the surface. And god, how Sherlock loved to drink from those currents; to let them wash over him and drag him down to happily drown in all that is John.

Straightening his posture and moving forward again, he let his lips close around the still-fully-clothed head of his partner's erection, tongue dancing against the wet patch of precum for a moment before he pulled back.

"Gawd John," he drawled, fully aware of the effect his accent had on the man before him. "You taste so fucking good." He sucked on his bottom lip slightly for emphasis, savoring the salty taste. A twitch in John's leg alerted him that the doctor was going to start moving soon. But before he could do anything, the detective quickly leaned forward to run his tongue under the waistband of John's pants, moving from hip to hip in one smooth motion. When he went to take a mouthful of the silken fabric, he also nipped at the smaller man's hipbone. With little warning, John unclasped his hands and wound his fingers back into Sherlock's hair, dragging the taller man to his feet.

"That is quite enough, you fucking tease." John's voice was hot with lust and dark with frustration. Without any other preamble he dragged Sherlock to the bed, throwing the taller man down onto the navy duvet. While Sherlock righted himself, John stripped off his tee and took a seat on the edge of the mattress towards the head of the bed.

His long torso arched artistically as Sherlock pulled himself into a sitting position. John eyed his movements hungrily, and the gaze sent a pang of desire right to the taller man's groin. Jesus. Could he possibly be getting hard again? Though he knew it had been longer, it felt like the orgasm John gave him downstairs was just a minute or two ago. The doctor glanced at Sherlock's hardening length, and raised an eyebrow.

"Horny as a teenager, you are. But don't think you're getting out of this with a hard dick and your best "fuck me" eyes," he chided. Leaning his tanned form forward, John opened the nightstand drawer and began rooting through the contents. Sherlock heard the familiar sound of the lube bottle, but it was complemented by a familiar but not-familiar-in-this-context swish of fabric. When John turned back to the detective, he held a bottle of lube and one of Sherlock's best (if not his favorite) blue scarf.

"John!" His deep voice reverberated with irritation and anticipation. Certainly John had tied him up before, but never with one of his own belongings. Another wave of pleasure crashed through him, and he felt a blush once again creeping up his neck. Something about it being his scarf, the one worn out at crime scenes and to dinners, made the whole affair that much more personal.

"Shut up and come here." John motioned with his head, indicating that Sherlock should stand in front of him. That commanding tone only served to send another pulse of rapture through his system. He slid off the bed to stand on long, shaky legs in front of his partner. John eyed him almost critically, and the detective could practically feel that stormcloud blue gaze on him, like fingernails biting into and dragging across his skin. As John's eyes flitted across the detective's ivory abdomen he smirked, noting that Sherlock was at about half arousal again. The blonde gave a satisfied nod, then barked "Turn around."

Sherlock immediately complied, obediently moving his hands behind his back. John positioned him so that his forearms were parallel with each other, and began winding the scarf securely around them. The position was uncomfortable but not entirely unpleasant, despite it's newness. Usually John just tied him to something. mostly because after a certain level of arousal the detective seemed to have little to no control over his hands. But like this Sherlock was mobile, not tied down to anything, with his hands behind him. He felt oddly vulnerable.

Briefly, his mind seized. He couldn't break a fall if John decided to throw him. Couldn't protect himself if John decided to strangle him. Or what if John became incapacitated? What if he was hurt and needed Sherlock to call someone? To stop him from bleeding? A hundred different ways the position could be disadvantageous flashed across his mind and a tremor of fear, not desire, shot down his spine. John must have sensed the change in him. He steadied the taller man with strong hands on his hips, and with great care and gentleness, pulled him back onto his lap.

One strong arm wrapped around his waist as he settled into John's lap. The other ran through his disheveled dark waves with no hint of the dominance that they held just moments before. John merely stroked his scalp comfortingly, letting Sherlock's breathing settle back into a more normal rhythm.

Sitting on John's lap he was almost comically taller than his doctor. Sherlock curved his long spine forward, creating distance between their torsos. The doctor almost pulled him back flush against his chest but Sherlock let his head lean back, resting the shelf of his skull on John's broad shoulder. Wild raven curls brushed against the doctor's neck, and he nuzzled his cheek against the silken mess.

"If this is too much, stop me." His voice was steady and even, and it settled the last of Sherlock's insecurities. "You know what to say," John whispered, breath tickling Sherlock's scalp. Warm emotions swirled through his ribs around his heart, an overwhelming cacophony of security, trust, and passion. Words stuck in his suddenly-constricted throat, so the detective merely nodded in assent.

It was captivating, the level of trust he placed in John Watson. Intoxicating, and addictive in a completely different way than his need for Jim. He needed Moriarty for the danger, the uncertainty, the sheer madness and unpredictability. He needed the sweet, stinging pleasure of endorphins and adrenaline in his blood when Jim bit too hard.

But John... He needed john just as much, for the opposite reasons. It was essential that John be his solid ground; the one thing in the universe he could trust in as much (if not more than) himself. The one person that he could expose himself to, feel vulnerable in front of. Someone who would have him, take him, strip him down to a quivering mass of nerves and emotion but never, ever 'use' him. And no matter how far the stocky doctor pushed Sherlock's limits, he would unerringly stop before he crossed any boundaries.

Jim and John; his shadow and light. They were the opposite parts of his soul; he was woefully incomplete without either. Sherlock could have easily stayed suspended in the thought forever, but John's voice called him back to the moment.

"Come back to me, Sherlock." John's voice was firm, but concerned. He laid one hand across Sherlock's cheek, index and middle fingers caressing the soft skin and downy hairs at his temple. The lean detective let out a contented sigh and rolled his head on the doctor's shoulder so his lips were brushed against the side of his tanned throat.

"M' here, John." he rumbled.

"You are now," his partner commented. "Where did you run off to, at a time like this?" He ground his still-clothed erection up against the cleft Sherlock's ass, making the dark haired main suddenly aware that he was deposited in his good doctor's lap.

"Mmm, that's nice," he mumbled, returning John's grind by oscillating his hips just so, causing delightful friction against his partner's length.

"Sherlock." John's voice was a bit sterner, but not angry. "You can do that all you want. I'm not fucking you until you tell me what's going on in that complicated, brilliant mind of yours."

"I was thinking." Sherlock punctuated the concise response with another wiggle of his hips, which made John growl in feral pleasure. The lean detective really didn't want to explain his thought process to John. Fortunately, he was confident in his powers of distraction.

He slid his hips back, making sure John was settled directly in the cleft between his cheeks, and tightened his thighs. Rubbing back and forth, he breathed lightly on the side of John's neck.

"But Johnnnn. You've been so hard for so long, " Another series of short thrusts, and the doctor's hips bucked against him. Sherlock could very nearly feel John's heartbeat through the swollen erection pulsing against him. His own hips gave an involuntary shudder as he thought of the thick length penetrating him; mind lost for a moment on how exquisite it felt to be lifted up again and again by that magnif icentcock , completely impaled and at the doctor's mercy.

"Sherlock!" The stocky blonde's voice had slipped back into its completely authoritarian ex-Captain tone. John slid the hand on Sherlock's cheek down to his throat, and gave his eager companion a warning squeeze. Knowing the gesture, the detective stopped his undulations.

"I was thinking about you. Us." God, he hoped it was enough. All Sherlock wanted was to leave the confusion and the guilt behind in the parlor and just have John fuck his brain into numbness. Strong, deft fingers closed up around Sherlock's throat and he automatically arched his back further, which inadvertently pushed him even further against the doctor's lap.

"I... gaah... I was thinking about **all** of us." John's hand didn't tighten, but he didn't release the marble pale column of Sherlock's neck either.

"You." He pushed his hips back into the doctor again, this time on purpose. "Me." Another drive backwards against his doctor, and he heard John take in a stuttering breath. "Jim." Ivory thighs tightened as he slid himself against the shorter man yet again.

"Really, Sherlock. Thinking of Jim? Now? We're having "us" time." The doctor's voice was even, but the lean sleuth knew his partner well enough to recognize the slight hint of anger there. The lack of a disciplinary constriction of his airway was another indicator; John 'punished' him regularly, but never in anger. Not ever in anger.

"I'm sorry, John." Aquamarine eyes slid closed as he tried to search for the right words. "It's a bit of a current topic. I'm trying to figure out where we all fit."

"Aah. Trying to figure out where we all fit?" Now it was John's turn to thrust up against him. strong arm around his waist holding him down to increase the pressure. A soft, sweet moan slipped past Sherlock's lips. John glanced down at his partner, lines around his closed eyes fading as he went from concentration to bliss. He thrust into the taller man again, using his arm to pull against pulling sharp hips, forcing Sherlock back to meet him.

"I know exactly where I fit, Sherlock," John's voice was a low growl now, half lust and half frustration. "Shall I show you?"

"OhgodyesJohnplease..." The words tumbled from his full lips before they could even form in Sherlock's mind.

"Stand up." Sherlock blinked, raising his head off John's shoulder, attempting to look back at his doctor quizzically. That was not what he expected. More friction, less pants yes. Physical separation, no. One broad hand placed itself above his bound arms, and gave him a gentle nudge.

"Up, Sherlock. It's not a complicated concept." Immediately, Sherlock rose and took two steps forward, giving John space to maneuver. "Now turn around."

"I had a feeling I was going to need this..." the blonde murmured, returning to the bedside table. He rummaged in the drawer again for a minute, before procuring a mid sized, bullet shaped black object. The end was flared somewhat, with a slight grip protruding from the end. So it was meant to sit in the body for a period of time, and... Sherlock's heart convulsed in his chest as a bolt of pleasure lanced through him. That definitely looked like it had a small panel on the side of the handle where you could put batteries.

One tanned hand picked up the lube off the duvet and John snapped the lid open, pouring a generous amount into his hand. Conversationally, almost as if he wasn't preparing some sort of new toy to enter him, he stated "One does really have to be quite prepared with you Sherlock. Making you maintain your focus is quite the task."

Sherlock stood in silence, watching his partner's hand move up and down the black toy, before holding it at arm's length, inspecting his work. "That'll do. Now come here." He closed the bottle of lube and laid it back on the bed, then used his free hand to gesture to his lap.

"Lay across my legs. Head towards the foot of the bed." Hesitantly, Sherlock moved to comply and John assisted him, lowering him down so that his abdomen lay across broad tan thighs. He squirmed somewhat at the awkward positioning; John had spread his own legs some so that Sherlock's abdomen was balanced on one leh and his chest on the other. It left his head to lay against the mattress. His hardening length was pressed up against John's thigh, and with his arms tied behind him he felt indescribably exposed.

It hadn't failed his notice that in this position his ass was raised slightly, giving John rather good access. His legs hung off the shorter man's, dangling over the edge of the bed. They weren't quite long enough for his knees to reach the floor so he had to extend them behind him fully or let them hang. When he did push them out behind him, it raised his ass even more.

Satisfied with the position, John tangled his left hand in Sherlock's dark hair, right at the base of his neck. With the other, he used the toy to trace a line up and down the cleft of his ass before seeking out the tight ring of muscle hidden within and running the slicked instrument over it. Sherlock jumped, hips jerking forwards, which pressed his aching length even harder against John's thigh. The doctor chuckled to himself, continuing to trace circles around the detective's sensitive hole.

"Mmhhhaaaahhh... oh, oh god, John... **Oh John**." The darked haired man bucked his hips again, uncertain whether he was trying to push up against the toy or down against his partner's leg. The both felt indescribably good. Slowly, he felt the doctor exert more pressure, the tip of the vibrator sliding into his ass. John worked it inside him gently, pushing millimeters at a time, allowing Sherlock's body to relax around each gradual intrusion.

Finally, he felt the flared end up against the outside of his opening, and he sucked in a deep breath, not quite knowing what to expect yet. Once fully seated inside him, the handle was slight enough that it didn't protrude fully from his cheeks, which made the detective think that it was more a tool for removing the object rather than maneuvering it.

"You see, Sherlock," John continued, voice as serene and genial as ever. The tone maddened the taller man, and he helplessly ground his hips against John's thigh in some feeble protest. Somehow he was managing to take apart one of the worlds greatest minds, and sounded like he was ordering takeaway. In response to his squirming, John took his now toy-less hand and gave Sherlock's pale bottom a hard, open handed swat. Sherlock yelped in surprise as the sting of the blow rushed through him, but also pushed the toy inside him against the taut bundle of nerves deep inside. Stars exploded behind his eyes, and he gasped once before falling completely still against John's legs.

"As I was saying," the stocky blond admonished, voice warm with pleasure and no small amount of pride. It felt wonderful to know that he, John Watson, could take the impeccable Sherlock Holmes and turn him into a writhing mass of bound limbs and exquisite pleasure.

"This is how we fit together." Fingers pressed against the base of the toy inside him, and with a fateful 'click' a low electronic hum began to fill the room. Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head and he tossed helplessly against John's broad thighs at the onslaught of new sensation. Deep vibrations shook him to the core of his being; white, fiery pleasure coursed through his veins. He gasped, breath coming to him irregularly between moans and half-formed syllables. As his hips jerked helplessly against his doctor, his erection ground against the other man almost painfully. God. Sherlock was uncertain if he had ever been this hard in his entire life. John gave his dark waves a playful yank, craning his neck and forcing his spine to arch backwards, pressing him even further against his doctor.

"Oh Sherlock," John purred, fingers tangling even deeper in those raven locks. He jerked Sherlock back even further, until the violinist's body was as taut as his bow string. His other hand cracked down on Sherlock's haunches again, and the detective let out a wanton howl as the vibrating mass inside him pressed up against his prostate.

"Only I can take you and distill all your chaos into a single, perfect moment." Crack. Sherlock shuddered, nerves ablaze delicious ache. His shoulders were on fire from having his hands bound behind him, his neck ablaze with the burn of exertion. His cock throbbed painfully against John's leg, distress only slightly lessened by the sheer amount of precum he was generating.

"Moriarty overwhelms you, makes you forget who you are." Crack. That broad hand struck him again, and Sherlock became suddenly aware that he was very probably screaming. Crack. His cries were loud and long, pain and desire melding together and eroding any conscious thought at all. The silence in his mind was deafening, and he embraced the quiet of the moments between John's swings like a dying man embracing fate.

"I stop you thinking long enough so that you can truly remember what it's like to feel." Crack. Sherlock whimpered, moans having abandoned him a few strikes earlier. He couldn't believe how wanton his voice sounded, couldn't imagine what he looked like stretched across John's lap, writhing against the other man with wild abandonment. The coiling sensation building at an alarming rate in his abdomen claimed every last fraction of his focus. Crack. John's hand found purchase on his flesh again, and pain shock followed by warm burn of his flesh coursed straight to his groin.

"Do you feel now, Sherlock?" Crack. John panted some from the exertion, but mostly from the breathtaking sight of his lover sprawled across him. Sherlock's pert white ass bore lovely streaks of red from the spanking. His neck and shoulders were arched in with an unearthly grace, like some marble statue from ancient times. The pale expanse of skin across his back was broken by the contrast of his midnight blue scarf that bound his arms behind him. John watched in fascination as those tied yet still dexterous hands clenched and unclenched in time with his strikes.

This was further than he had ever pushed Sherlock before. The detective was completely enraptured by the experience, and John felt so pleased that he had found the perfect combination of helplessness, sex and pain to push that torturously brilliant mind to stillness. His detective was further past thinking than John had ever seen him.

"What do you feel now, Sherlock?" Crack. Sherlock positively leaned into the blow, extending his legs behind him and digging his toes into the carpeting, spreading his legs slightly to give John better access to his ass.

"You... ohgodJohnonlyyou. Just you..." The words came out in a tumble, all tripping over Sherlock's normally silver tongue.

"Do you think I could turn Jim's brain off like this?" Crack. "If I can subdue the mighty Sherlock Holmes I can surely overpower the second smartest man in London." Crack. Sherlock keened with every ragged breath, need and want tangling in his throat to choke out all other sounds.

"Does it turn you on to think of me doing this to Jim?" Crack. "Would you like to see him tied up and spread across my lap like the slut he is?" Crack. "Or do you want to keep this all to yourself? Your own private heaven?" Crack. Crack. Crack. Sapphire eyes began to water, pleasure and agony combining to the point of mind shattering euphoria.

"Tell me what you want, Sherlock."

"Nyaah... ahh... Jo...ah... aaahhh... aaaaahhhhnnnnn..." The usually eloquent sleuth's attempt to merely say his partners name came out as a thunderous moan punctuated with broken syllables.

"Do you want me to fuck you now?" Crack. Sherlock's shuddered uncontrollably, desperately trying to catch his breath. His doctor continued his empyrean assailment on his senses. Crack.

"Do you want me to drive you into the mattress until that beautiful brain of yours finally lets go?" Crack. The feel of the vibrator pressing up against his prostate with every strike of John's broad hand became the focal point of his existence. Dimly, he could still hear his doctor speaking. "To thrust deep inside until you come so hard you pass out?"

"GOD YES." He was uncertain where his voice had been hiding, but at John's prompting it clawed free from him, ragged and hoarse with unrestrained need, Needing no further persuasion, John released his grip on the detective's wild curls , tracing the free hand all the way down his back. When he reached the reddened globes of the detectives ass, he spread them gently and pulled the toy out. Sherlock convulsed; the sudden feeling of emptiness almost overwhelming. John deposited the device off the side of the bed, not bothering to turn it off. It continued to hum dully against the carpeting.

His doctor gave him a moment to adjust, for feeling to start returning to his shaking limbs before he pushed Sherlock up off his lap, standing him up. The lanky violinist stood on uneasy legs; his muscles all felt as if they had been replaced with water. Once Sherlock was righted John stood too, and pulled his partner into a crushing kiss. Solid arms spun the taller man around, and even as his back hit the mattress the room continued to revolve around him. John's mouth was sucked hungrily at his tongue, solid body grinding up against the trembling one beneath him. One of John's hands released him and moved between them, finally stripping his pants off. Desperate for his partner, Sherlock reached down to assist, and once the were down far enough John kicked them off, not once breaking their embrace.

He felt the shorter man fumbling around next to him on the mattress, and heard the doctor's groan of relief as his fingers closed around the bottle of lube. John pulled back from Sherlock's mouth and the detective leaned forward; hungrily trying to steal another kiss. Their lips met again, and John devoured him in another breath-stealing embrace. The stocky blond ran his arms behind Sherlock as their tongues ran against one another. With his arms still bound behind him, the detective's hands could feel the blonde open the bottle and dump the contents into his hand.

John canted his hips backwards, creating enough space between them for him to wrap his hand around his hardened length. He released his grip around Sherlock's waist as well as the lock on his mouth and began to slick himself slowly, moaning and panting the detective's name with every thrust into his fist.

"Sherlock. God. Sherrrrrrr...loooooock... Aaahhh." Just as his partner was about to lose himself completely, start screaming and begging or perhaps just climb on top of John and take that beautiful cock inside him, John took one hand and placed it over his rapidly beating heart, pushing him back into the mattress. Strong hands slid under his knees, guiding them to rest over tanned shoulders. The stocky blond then grasped his pulsing cock, positioning the head at Sherlock's entrance.

With a fluid push, John seated himself halfway inside the writhing violinist, pausing for a moment to let his partner adjust. Impatient, Sherlock tensed his legs, tightening his knees and using the leverage to shove himself fully onto John's thick length. The gesture seemed to undo them both, and John began driving into him at a demanding pace.

As close as they both were to climax it took only a few thrusts before Sherlock started to feel his abdomen and balls tighten in warning. He felt stretched thin over a bottomless chasm, desperate for John to give him that final push into sweet freefall. His hands flexed helplessly against their binds, desperate to claw down John's broad back, to rake at short, sandy hair. He pushed himself back against the other man as best he could, contracting his muscles around John with every pointed thrust, determined to draw his stocky doctor deeper and deeper inside him.

Without warning, John drove himself directly against Sherlock's nigh overstimulated prostate, and the contact was too much for the detective's overloaded system to bear. He felt his muscles flutter and contract as he screamed John's name. Waves of crushing bliss forced the air from his lungs and he convulsed against his partner, breathless and spiraling helplessly as his body quaked against John for what felt like an eternity. Dimly, he was aware of a black haze at the edges of his vision, and the last thing he felt was John twitch inside him, perfect cock throbbing as he pulsed an almost unending stream of cum deep into Sherlock.

The next sensation the lean detective was aware of was the feeling John's steady hands rolling him onto his side. He felt the scarf unwind from his arms, and sighed contentedly as his arms were freed. Flexing his shoulders, Sherlock rolled back over, winding his arms around John's compact torso and snuggling into his partner's scarred shoulder.

He ran his hands over John's bare chest, reveling in the feel of muscles flexing underneath his fingertips. His doctor just felt so solid, so real. Jim was ethereal, fae in the old meaning of the word; otherworldly, alien, and dangerous. The blonde man holding him was quite the opposite, and in moments like these he made the detective feel closer to reality than he was normally accustomed to.

It terrified him in a completely different way than his interactions with Moriarty. It was as if John was slowly peeling back the lacquer around his hardened heart, opening him to all the weakness and sentiment he thought had withered long ago. It terrified him, the vulnerability that John made him feel. His dependency on the stocky blond sang through his veins like a bittersweet melody, intoxicating and harrowing at the same time.

John absentmindedly traced patterns on his back with his strong fingertips. It took the detective a moment, but after some concentration he recognized the pattern as the cursive letters l,o,v, and e. He repeated the motions again and again, tattooing Sherlock's back and shoulders with his ghostly declaration. Unable to say anything in return, half from exhaustion and half from shock, the dark haired man simply strengthened his hold on John, curling up against him even more tightly.

"Sherlock. Promise me something?" John could feel the muscles underneath his touch tense as Sherlock registered the request. The doctor knew it was unlike him to ask Sherlock for anything, let alone a promise. He could very nearly hear the gears in his detective's mind start to grind into gear again. He laid his palm flat in the space between Sherlock's shoulder blades, a comforting gesture that he knew always stilled the taller man's anxieties.

"I won't ask you to do anything crazy. It's just something to remember." Wordlessly, his detective nodded his assent into John's chest.

"No matter what, remember this. The madman may challenge your mind, but I challenge your heart. You've cases, and Mycroft, and a million other distractions to challenge that superb brain of yours. Your heart is where I fit into all this. Remember that." As he spoke, he ran his hand along Sherlock's shoulders soothingly. The contact made the raven haired detective surprisingly sleepy.

As John traced one hand up and down his spine, gentle tremors ran through his exhausted limbs. The aftershocks of pleasure clung to him, dragging him gently into the calm waters of unconsciousness. He had just enough presence of mind to murmur "I will." to the heartbeat underneath him before he finally succumbed to his old enemy and let sleep claim him.

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**Hmm. It appears that John is going to attempt to be in charge of all the geniuses. That was... unexpected. Dom!John has a mind of his own. I'm currently debating between doing a Jim-centric chapter next (because I miss his crazy sexy ass), or simply allowing myself to be swept up in the tornado that is the Baker Street Boys and their angst and smut issues. Suggestions are always welcome, and I still save all reviews and favorites in my creepy mechanical heart box where I keep all my favorite feels.**

**Ta for now!**

**Mazi**


	4. Chapter 4

**That unfortunately took longer than I had hoped! But hey, at least it's the longest chapter yet. Right?**

**Disclaimer: I own none of these lovely peeps. Although I would be willing to knife fight Moffat et. al. for rights. I'd lose, but I'd get to have "killed by Moffat" on my tombstone, like ALL MY OTHER FAVORITE CHARACTERS.**

**Warnings: MorMor, Johniarty, Sheriarty, Johnlock... pre-Johnlockiarty? Is there a better term for that? If yes please do let me know. (Pssst. Those are still all dudes, but if you weren't into that I guess you would't be in chapter four.) Umm... Other than that this chapter's pretty tame. Only some very mild (mostly implied) BDSM. And just the tiniest bit of fluff. . I'll go back to being bad soon, I promise.**

**Again, all the thanks to Vivi Vivacious, my beta / grammar Dalek. Way to try and reign in my adverbs.**

* * *

**All Apologies, Pt 4.**

As the familiar melody of Caprice No. 16 began to degrade into a halting series of half connected notes, Jim Moriarty tightened his fingers in short blonde hair. His lean back arched as he forced himself against the back of the throat of the man below him. As the jarring, tinny music playing from the mobile stopped and Sherlock's familiar moaning commenced he came with a gasp, fingers finally relaxing their grip on his partner's scalp.

Casually, Jim reached over flicked his mobile off, stopping the moans and soft wet noises that echoed through the hotel room. The blonde pulled himself up the mattress, scarred shoulders flexing as he laid his head on the pillow next to the dark haired criminal. They lay together in silence for a comfortable moment before Jim sat bolt upright, clutching his mobile like it was made of platinum. Post sex glossiness fading from his eyes, his fingers furiously dancing across the screen.

"Well, that settles it. I'm staying here. Seb, you're going to Paris." Jim's lithe digits flew over his mobile as he presumably updated his itinerary. "Tell me, how do you feel about being me for a weekend?" His voice had the manic trill of hyperfocused, overexcited Jim rather than the particularly warm, singsong quality that Sebastian Moran had come to associate with contented, post coitial Jim. He grunted and rolled his cobalt eyes. Jim and his fucking projects.

"Boss. You're always like this when you get a new toy. Or toys. How long you think this pair'll last till they break?" If his voice was rough it was surely due to the nearly back to back, vigirous mouth fuckings Jim had given him. Both while watching that damnable video.

"Ooo-ooh Sebastian." The consulting criminal fixed his tiger with a piercing gaze, before breaking off into a fit of giggles. Still laughing, the madman snatched his cigarette case and lighter from the night stand. He lit one and took a deep drag, exhaling the smoke directly into Sebastian's face. "Jealous much?" His sniper responded by slapping Jim lightly on the thigh to distract him, then snatched the lit stick out of ivory fingers. He took a pointedly deep drag but didn't return Jim's gesture, instead blowing his smoke towards the ceiling.

"Really, Jim. Holmes I get. I'd love to know what that smart mouth of his feels like wrapped around my dick. See those blue eyes water as I thrust into his too-pretty face." Moran's voice was a deep, low rumble. Jim's left eye twitched imperceptibly; obviously his sniper had entertained thoughts of the great consulting detective before the current conversation.

"But Watson?" His tiger continued with a grimace. It took Jim a moment to identify it as an expression of distaste. "Isn't he a little... common?" The criminal snatched another cigarette from his case, grabbed Sebastian's wrist and used the lit tip of the other man's smoke to light his own. He exhaled the wispy blue strands of smoke along with a pornographic moan.

"At first blush, but underneath he's quite filthy." Feeling his sniper twitch beside him, Jim continued, keeping his voice low and husky. "Truly dirty mind on that one. I was actually surprised when he responded to the text he "intercepted"." He gestured wildly with his cigarette, causing embers to fall on the sheets. Sebastian dutifully pressed out the smoldering bits with his thumb, allowing his boss to continue his rant.

"Me! Surprised. By that doctor of all people. Well he made a proposition, and I thought to myself '_Moriarty, Jim, dear. This whole ordeal is just too utterly complicated and interesting to pass up._' Plus, Seb. Dirty pictures!" Bright black eyes sparkled down at Sebastian. The level of the smaller man's glee over his new pet project infuriated Seb to no end.

Jim almost bent down and bit his partner when he didn't see excitement mirrored in those blue eyes. But then he stopped, observing his partner instead of merely looking at him. _Eyes no longer dilated. Nostrils flared, Nearly imperceptible lines around the mouth, lips compressed. Muscles in his hand tensed and ready to punch..._

"Oh, I'm so-o-o-orry, Sebby dear." He let his voice dance around, elongating the syllables of sorry until his sarcasm was gratuitously obvious. "Was that the part where I was supposed to say that he's terribly dull when compared with you?" His tiger merely grunted in response, rolling over and grabbing his own mobile off the bedside table. In response, Jim laid back down, slithering up against the larger man's broad, knife scarred back. The dark eyed criminal let his long fingers run down a few marks he was particularly proud of; he had made those extra deep to cover up scars his tiger already had before Jim claimed him. He brought his rosebud pink lips up to Sebastian's ear.

"Nobody fucks me like you do, Sebastian." Jim made sure his voice was the particular combination of growl and whisper that the blonde loved. "Nobody else brings me presents like you do. Truthfully. Do you think that John Watson would bring me a teakettle full of severed fingers as foreplay?"

"I do want to fuck him though. And I will. And Sherlock too, while I'm at it. Again. Because I CAN. Are you worried?" He purred into the larger man's ear and smiled as he watched a shiver travel through his partner's taut body. "Well, Seb? Are you?"

"Mmmm... Not -ah- at all."

"You're right. I'll break them like I've broken all my other toys. All but you, Seb." With that the criminal pushed their mouths together. It was a ravenous embrace; all teeth and tongue and biting and swirling. Jim nipped at Sebastian's lower lip as he pulled back, black eyes boring into cobalt.

"Every." Moriarty lowered his head and laid another kiss in the middle of his sniper's chest before moving his mouth lower still, tracing his tongue down Sebastian's chest.

"Single." This time he kissed the puckered, star shaped scar on his tiger's abdomen; a souvenir from the war as Seb liked to call it. It was one of the few scars that the sniper had left from his previous life that Jim hadn't covered up with his own markings. Neither of them was entirely sure why, but the precocious madman seemed to find it fascinating. He swirled his tongue around the risen edges as his hands played over the long thin scars that outlined his tiger's lower ribs. He gave the bullet scar one more peck before moving further down his tiger's striped torso. After a few scant centimeters he reached the tip of his partner's erection.

"One." Jim let his lips hover tantalizingly above the head, watching in fascination as the length of his partner's cock twitched in time with his breath. Casting his eyes upwards he noticed that Sebastian still managed to look serene despite the betrayal of his body. Seb's face may not have showed it, but at least the sniper's dick was wild and trembling for him.

"Except for you." Pink lips parted and without any preamble, Jim wrapped his lips around Sebastian's cock and pushed himself downard, taking the sniper to the root. He hummed happily in the back of his throat as his tiger gasped and moaned. Dark eyes glanced upwards and the criminal admired the way that the muscles in Sebastian's abdomen flexed, adored the way one of the strong killer's hands wound itself up in the luxurious sheets while the other still held the remains of his earlier cigarette. Temporarily distracted, Jim reflected on what a good idea it had been to change hotel rooms from the dingy, cheap thing he had shared with Sherlock earlier. Somehow knowing that his tiger was clawing at expensive sheets made the action that much more erotic.

Seb groaned in the back of his throat and canted his hips into the heat and wetness of his mouth, urging Jim onward. He placed one hand on each curving hipbone and used all his strength to pin Sebastian to the bed. His sniper's entire body trembled as Jim hollowed his cheeks and sucked, beginning to pull back, tracing silken lips against the other man's length. Encouraged by his Seb's animalistic growls, the criminal pushed himself back down. Opening his throat and taking as much of his sniper's cock as he could get, he began alternately humming and swallowing around the thick length. Sebastian began to thrust into the heat of Moriartry's throat, but the dark haired man fastened deceptively strong fingers onto his partner's hipbones and held him down to the mattress, determined to force Seb to comply with his pace.

His tiger's low growls became barely contained roars of pleasure that reverberated through their hotel, and Jim had to suppress a smile (_mouth being otherwise occupied, thank you!)_ knowing how uncomfortable they were likely making their neighbors. The criminal felt the familiar flutter of hip muscles under the pad of his fingertips, and knew that Sebastian was close. It was no wonder, really. After all, despite one wank and two terrific blow jobs, the mastermind hadn't bothered to get his partner off once.

"Jiiiiiim. Ah-ah... oh god Jim I'm gon..." The rest of his sniper's sentence dissolved into a wordless howl as Jim constricted his throat and sucked, ripping Sebastian' orgasm free. He dutifully swallowed, an uncommon gesture that for Jim was as close to an apology as possible.

Once Sebastian had stopped trembling the smaller man sat up, wiping his swollen lips on the back of one pale hand. Sebastian merely blinked at the ceiling for a few more seconds. Reflexively, one strong hand brought the cigarette he still held to his lips, and sucked. It had gone out, and Sebastian glowered before tossing the butt on the floor.

The taller man rolled onto his side, curling his muscled frame up around Jim's seated form. When he tried to reach past the smaller man to snatch the cigarette case and lighter from the table, his mastermind slapped his hands away.

"No! No time." His sniper gave him a heated glower, and dark eyes rolled as Jim relented. The madman found it quite difficult not to spoil Seb when he was being such a good pet. He picked up the case and freed a stick, lighting it and handing it off to his partner who gave him the barest hints of a grateful smile in return. They laid in silence for a few minutes, Jim furiously working at his mobile while Sebastian smoked. About two thirds of the way through the cigarette, Jim snatched it from his tiger's lips. He leaned down and drove an elbow into the taller man's side, none too gently urging him out of the bed.

"Enough! You're done. Now go go go go go! _**You**_ have to get packed. And _**I**_ need to figure out what to wear." And with that, the diminutive brunette took the remains of the cigarette into the bathroom. Sebastian considered following his partner, but stopped when he heard the telltale click of the lock on the door. Not that it could have kept him out if he had wanted in, but Jim had made his dismissal clear with the gesture. All that was left was for Sebastian to throw a few things in his duffel and catch a cab back to his flat to try and get some sleep before his flight.

Morning came far too early for John Watson's comfort. His shoulders were sore from the exertion of last night, and his lips felt so swollen he could have sworn he had been in a fight. After a moment of fitful blinking to adjust his eyes to the light, he realized that he was so dehydrated that he felt hungover. And he was also a bit sticky from the previous night's escapades. So, washing up and a drink of water were in order then.

There was just one problem. The world's greatest detective was sprawled across his chest, sound asleep. For someone so thin, the taller man was quite difficult to move when he was dead weight. Sherlock had thrown an arm and a leg over his doctor's body, his dark hair tickling John's chin and neck as he nuzzled up against his shoulder. Long violinists fingers gripped tightly to the smaller man's tanned, scarred shoulder, and the full weight of his body pressed down on top of John's other arm.

"Sherlock." He bent his head as much as he could and whispered the name into the detective's tangle of dark curls. No response. "Sherlock." A little louder. Still nothing. From the slightness of his breath and his unresponsiveness it would have been easy to mistake the long limbed man as comatose.

Ever so slowly, the doctor began trying to extract his good arm out from underneath his partner. It was a futile gesture; Sherlock had him completely pinned. He couldn't get up unless he wanted to risk waking the other man.

The doctor started to try and roll over, using the last remaining escape move in his arsenal. Sometimes Sherlock would simply slide off him to curl up around a John-shaped space in the bed. Not this time. Spidery fingers tightened on his shoulder, and he nearly had a heart attack as his detective's deep baritone rumbled through the room.

"Absolutely not, John." There had been no movement, no change in the taller man's breathing to indicate that he had woken. Had he been awake the whole time?

"Absolutely not what?"

"You are absolutely not getting up. Not at this ungodly hour." Craning his neck, John cast a glance at the clock on the table. 11:09 AM.

"Sherlock, it's..." His dark haired anchor snapped, cutting him off.

"Yes, yes. It's before noon. Which is why its criminal that you would even think of leaving."

"How did you? You know what, nevermind." John continued to try and roll out of Sherlock's spidery embrace, but the other man held fast. Well, not so much held as laid atop. It seemed the detective had calculated the exact way to lay so that he could keep his doctor pinned without having to move at all.

"Sherlock. I need to, ahem. You know."

"No John; I'm a genius. Not psychic. There's at least six different things you could need to do right now. Should I list them in order of probability and let you pick?"

" I have to use the bathroom, alright?" John's voice was frustrated but held no actual heat.

"Yes, that would have been the first item on the list. Probability-wise, that is." Despite his words, the taller man gave no indication that he was even thinking of moving.

"Well, you have to let go of me then."

"Thanks so much for clearing that up. I certainly wouldn't have thought of it on my own." Sherlock's voice was flat, but the words caused John to smile. Their usual banter always made him happy, even if he desperately need a drink of water and a piss.

"Sherlock!" Even though he couldn't see them, John knew that his partner rolled his piercing blue eyes behind closed lids.

"Fine, John. But you need to do one thing for me." Now it was the doctor's turn to roll his eyes.

"You haven't even gotten out of bed yet. You can't possibly need a pen, or your mobile, or..." His tirade cut off abruptly as Sherlock rolled off him and rose up on one elbow, lowering his face mere centimeters away from his doctor's. Aquamarine eyes held him captive. God, was anything better than waking up to those eyes?

"Shut up and kiss me, John Hamish Watson." Right. That. Kissing. Kissing was even better.

"Morning breath and all?" The question earned him another trademark flat glare. "Right then." He brought one strong hand to the back of Sherlock's raven haired head, and pulled the other man down to close the distance. The kiss was unlike anything they shared the prior night. Their mouths met gently, lips moving slowly against each other. Sherlock parted his lips, inviting John inside.

His doctor happily obliged, moving the very tip of his tongue against the detective's in slow gentle spirals, punctuated with short sweeps into the other man's mouth. John swept his tongue in Sherlock's mouth in brief intervals, enjoying the familiar textures between soft presses of their lips. Smooth teeth. Silken lips. Ridged roof. Strong tongue. He thought back to their first kiss and how surprised he was to find that tongue had no literal edge to go with the figurative sharpness. But the taller man's mouth was delightfully malleable then as now, lips currently yielding to John as he pulled back and traced them with the pad of his index finger.

"Much better." And with that, the long limbed detective rolled back over on his side and pulled the duvet up over his head.

"Are you seriously going back to sleep?" Sherlock's reply was less of a word and more of a grumble.

"Fine then. I shouldn't complain. You won't do it again for another week. I'm going to shower. Do you need the bathroom?" Another grumble, and no movement. John placed a quick kiss on the top of the lump that was Sherlock's buried head and rose, before grabbing some clothing from the closet and strolling off to their bathroom.

The heat of the shower worked life back into his muscles, and after a good scrubbing of both body and teeth John actually felt decent again. Rather than throwing on his robe, he dressed for going out in the clothing he had gathered from his closet; jeans, a light blue button down and a navy cardigan that Harry had gotten him for Christmas. It was likely that Sherlock would sleep through the rest of the day; one of the side effects of going so long without rest was that when his body finally did shut down it did so in 18 to 20 hour stretches. If anything interesting happened when he woke he'd be up for another 72 hours, only to repeat the cycle.

John winced to think about what the erratic schedule likely did to his detective's body, but there'd be no changing it. Sherlock was what he was. Infuriating but endearing in every way. But Sherlock being otherwise occupied gave John a chance to catch up on what the detective liked to refer to the "tedium of being ordinary". Shopping, bills, catching up with Harry... things that had been the fabric of his life before Baker street were now things he simply worked into the blank spaces not being occupied by his detective and The Work. It was too bad that today wasn't a clinic day; it would have been excellent to get through a shift without having to answer a thousand impatient texts from his bored companion.

Once out of the bathroom, the unmistakably acrid smell of cigarette smoke wafted up the stairs. Sherlock must be up already, then. Rolling his eyes in frustration, John descended the stairs and made his way into the kitchen.

"Sherlock. I've warned you about smoking, let alone in the flat," he announced as he turned the corner and entered the room. What greeted him had him reaching for a gun that he currently wasn't carrying. It wasn't Sherlock in the kitchen. The frame was wrong, too small. Once he realized who it was John's desire for his gun only slightly lessened.

England's (and likely the world's) most dangerous consulting criminal perched in one of the kitchen chairs, looking completely at home. Jim crouched in the chair, sitting on his heels while resting his arms on his knees. John observed him carefully, eyes raking over him half in appreciation and half to assess for hidden weapons. A surge of adrenaline rushed through the doctor's system, making him hyper aware of every sensation. The tick of the clock in the hallway. The smell of Jim's cigarette. The soft sound of the other man's breathing. The underlying hint of cologne and pheromones. Swimming in sensation, John could feel the lightest of flushes run up his neck. His collar felt too tight.

Jim's black suit jacket hung open, and John could see the tiny skull print across the chest of his gray button down shirt. There weren't any telltale bulges of guns or the familiar lines of a holster, and John allowed himself to relax just a hair. Strangely, the smaller man had removed his shoes and socks. Black eyes flashed as the brunette tilted his head and he gave John an almost-warm smile before quirking an impeccably manicured eyebrow and ashing on the tile floor.

"Oops!" he drawled, before taking another drag. "I can't break rules I don't know about, Doctor Watson. After all, despite our arrangement you've never asked me over. I'm positively wounded." Another flick of ash, and another inhale of smoke.

"**Now** I'm being bad. Maybe I'm hoping you'll scold me the way you scolded Sherlock last night." Dark eyes flashed, unreadable. Was that excitement, anger, lust? John simply crossed his arms in front of him and leaned against the door frame, giving the diminutive criminal his best stern gaze.

"Good Morning to you too, Jim. So, not in Prague I take it." In response, the criminal gave him another flashing smile and a little wave. John felt a familiar tightening in his gut as he watched the flutter of Jim's fingers.

"It occurred to me that I had better things to do in town." Something about the criminal's brogue made the sentence sound incredibly suggestive. That voice was fluid sexuality in its rawest form; there was no other way for him to describe it. The sound of his breathy lilt coursed through John's veins and sent suggestive pulses straight to his groin. Jim gave him a knowing smile and took another deep drag on his cigarette, blowing a cloud of blue smoke up at the ceiling. John grimaced. At least Sherlock had managed to dismantle all of the smoke detectors during the course of his last experiment.

"Put that out, would you?" The blonde doctor was pleased with the amount of force he was able to put into the words, when all he truly expected to come out was a pleading groan. Blue eyes focused on Moriarty's lips, and for a second John was lost, imagining their texture.

"Mmm... I think not. I really do want to see if last night's threat to turn me over your knee was an idle one," he purred. Spidery arms extended over his head as Jim stretched, sliding down into a more normal sitting position. Gazing up at John with a half smile on his face, he slouched a bit, letting his knees fall open some. His unoccupied hand fell to rest high up on his black clad thigh, fingers lightly tapping out a beat near the juncture of leg and groin. Slowly, he ran his tongue between his lips before bringing his cigarette up and taking another deep drag.

John swallowed noticeably. Amazingly, the dark haired criminal managed to be sex incarnate without being the slightest bit obscene. If Sherlock's charm rested in his casual disregard for his physical presence, Moriarty truly was the opposite; each carefully considered movement was fine tuned to drive home his intentions. It was easy to see how Sherlock became so enraptured with the man; his presence was unnerving and intoxicating all at once.

There was a palpable tension in the air as the two men stared at each other. It occurred to John that this was the first time he had been in a room with Moriarty since the start of their "agreement". For all the flirting, pictures, texts, and occasional phone sex, they hadn't actually touched since the pool. The feel of the criminal's body close to him flooded John's memory; he was acutely aware that when he had wrapped his arm around Jim's neck the smaller man had pushed back into him in the most suggestive way.

At the time he figured the move was simply meant to unnerve him, or Sherlock, or both. But now, as his steely blue eyes focused on Jim's long fingers brushing up against the inside of his own thigh, John began to wonder if that was really the case. His heart pounded faster as he remembered what Moriarty's forehead felt like pressed against his temple, what that pale throat felt like fitted into the crook of his elbow, the smell of the smaller man's cologne. Madmen have mad apatites. Noting the increase in his pulse and the slight flush in his cheeks Watson wondered if he wasn't the maddest of the three of them. Despite the Sherlock's impossible disposition and Moriarty's madness and murder he felt inexplicably drawn to them both.

The uninvited criminal in his kitchen continued to watch him with the same knowing expression that Sherlock often adopted when he "read" John. Something about the smugness of it made John want to pick up the smaller man, slam him down against the table and pin him there. To knock him down a few rungs, fill him with a temporary rush of helplessness as he crushed that lithe body beneath him. To kiss him roughly until those rosy lips were red and raw. To pull that neatly groomed dark hair until it was in total disarray, to steal the breath from him and withdraw once the criminal had given in to the sensation, making him ache for more. The thought of Jim writhing beneath him in helpless abandon pooled in John's abdomen like liquid fire. The need to make Moriarty beg tugged at his cock, making it hard to think.

Instead, John simply crossed the kitchen and snatched the cigarette out of Jim's hand as it moved back up to his tantalizing mouth. Offhandedly, the doctor flicked the butt into the sink and glared at the criminal. Best to start small. Just because Jim didn't have a gun on him didn't mean he wasn't armed. And for all that John suspected he knew the reason for the dark haired man being in the flat, he wasn't certain enough of the criminal's intentions to risk a knife in the gut. The unpredictability of the other man made his head swim; it felt almost like war again. The doctor's nerves thrummed as adrenaline soaked his brain, heightening each sensation and his general awareness.

"No smoking in the flat." Black eyes widened with rage, and Jim's expression transitioned from an amused grin to a feral snarl. Well shit. That was not quite the reaction he had hoped to produce. John quickly surveyed the area around him, seeking out anything that could be used as a weapon if the smaller man decided to attack.

"You fucking **simpleton**." Oh. Wait. He knew this one. The subtle mock indignation. The insult. It was exactly how Sherlock tested his limits. Funny how similar the two men were in intelligence and apatites. Well, Watson was practiced in how to manage an unruly genius. Oblivious to John's realization, Moriarty continued his rant. "If you ever so much as..."

Crack. The sound of John's open hand against the side of the criminal's face rang through the kitchen like a whip crack. It was a casual strike, not much force behind it. More to make a point than to hurt. But damn if it wasn't loud.

"I thought you wanted a little discipline, Jim." The ensuing silence lasted to an almost uncomfortable degree as the criminal stared at John, black eyes flat and unreadable. John held his ground, staring back into the black gaze with a heat of his own. Almost as if on a cue, a high pitched whistle pierced the quiet. Moriarty immediately burst into giggles.

"See, John? I'm not entirely without manners; I did put a kettle on." He stood up and waltzed over to the stovetop. Reaching up on tiptoes, stretching his body almost obscenely, the madman took teacups and saucers out from the cupboard. Dark eyes glanced back at the doctor over his shoulder. "Tea?"

"Two sugars, thanks. John, I see we have company." The blonde doctor nearly jumped out of his skin. He had been so focused on Moriarty that he hadn't noticed Sherlock arrive in the kitchen. His consulting detective filled the doorway, black hair elegantly mussed and dressed in nothing that John could see other than his navy dressing gown and a pair of well worn pyjama pants.

"I.. ah..." He stuttered, not quite sure how to proceed. There wasn't exactly a manual on etiquette for when your partner's criminally insane fuck buddy / nemesis broke into your kitchen. Introductions seemed right out. Thankfully, Jim glided over to the table with three cups on a tray, settling it on the table before sliding back into a chair.

"Well. It's about time. Good morning, sleepyhead!" he chirped, dark eyes glowing with lust as he raked them over Sherlock's form.

"I didn't know you were even capable of getting up before noon, Jim. And you're wearing your favorite McQueen. Special occasion?" If Sherlock was surprised at all by the scene in his kitchen his banal monotone did nothing to give it away. He strode in and settled himself on the last remaining chair, snatching a cup from the tray and sipping it fondly. The oddly domestic scene nearly made John choke on his own tea. Leave it to James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes to just act as if this was all a normal, everyday occurrence.

"Oh, unlike **some** people, I haven't slept yet," Jim quipped back, mischievous grin spreading across his fine boned face. "Slowing down, Sherlock?" The consulting detective humphed in response, devoting all his attention to his teacup as if it was the most interesting structure in the world. John leaned back and watched the two other men in rapt fascination. The energy that passed between the two geniuses made the air between them crackle. It was as if being around each other made both men shine just a bit brighter. Each word they spoke flared with passion; and John found himself unsurprisingly aroused by the display.

"Then again, I didn't get a terrific scolding from Doctor Watson last night. For all I know that'd put me right out too," the smaller man sang out in a sultry purr.

"Keep it up and you just might find out," Sherlock rumbled, arching one elegant eyebrow and assessing Moriarty's reaction. The criminal positively beamed in response.

"Threatening me on behalf of your paramore. Cute!" John was uncertain how someone could lean over a table suggestively, but Jim managed to ooze wantonness as he settled his forearms on the tabletop and leaned closer to Sherlock.

"Or would you like to see him try and take me?" His irish lilt had gone dark and low, voice a combination of whisper and growl that sent blood rushing to John's groin. Likely Sherlock's as well, if the slight coloring highlighting his cheekbones was any indication. Jim must have noticed, because in one serpentine motion he had exited his chair and wound himself around the tall detective's seated form. Pink lips pressed against the pale curve of Sherlock's ear, nearly hidden in dark curls, but it was John who gasped slightly at the sudden contact between the two men. Hypnotized by the scene unfolding, he took his breaths in shallow, rapid succession as he watched Jim press himself against Sherlock.

"Would that get under your skin, Detective? Do you want to watch me writhing against your dear doctor in your bed?" He kept his voice low, but still pitched so that John could hear. Each word sent a pang of lust through his abdomen, his groin tightening as he took in the scene in front of him. God. The sight of the world's only consulting criminal twined around the world's only consulting detective shouldn't have made his heart hammer and his blood sing. But for all it's wrongness, it most certainly did just that.

Sherlock, locked blue eyes with John for a moment, assessing his partner's state. He carefully noted the mere slivers of stormy blue iris still visible, the slight part of his lips, the speed and shallowness of his breaths. What he dutifully ignored was the brief stab of jealousy that surged through him. Good. It was good John was enjoying the show. He should pay it no mind that previously that lustful expression had been reserved solely for him. It didn't matter. This way there was no having to choose between his light and his shadow.

The lanky detective let his aquamarine eyes slide closed, giving in to the feel of Moriarty against him. It wasn't any different than any other time, he told himself. The sensations were the same, the distraction was the same. The overwhelming hunger was the same. Jim brought his well manicured hands up to Sherlock's throat, running his thumbs against either side of the taller man's windpipe before settling possessively around the base of his throat. Not too tight, but certainly enough to distract Sherlock from his momentary angst.

"Mmmhmmhmmm." The noise the criminal made was half chuckle, half lewd moan. "I can feel you getting hard just thinking about it, Sherly." Jim thrust himself against Sherlock's lap as if to emphasize his point.

"I bet you'd just love to touch yourself as you watched the good doctor here work me up into that carefully cultivated state of carnal desperation that drives you mad. All the while knowing exactly what it feels like, imagining me feeling it at his hands." Jim continued his rousing undulation against the taller man's lap as he spoke, smiling darkly at each twitch of the detective's growing erection. After a few more punctuated thrusts he swung himself easily off Sherlock's lap, looking down to admire his work.

Sherlock with bed head was always a delicious sight. Ordinarily he was so well put together, there was something indefinably alluring about seeing the man in a disheveled state. But Sherlock with bed head and tented pyjamas was even better. Mussed and aroused; Jim's favorite combination. His robe had come undone thanks to the smaller man's writhing, exposing the detective's leanly muscled chest. Leaning over, the dark haired criminal licked a line up from one curving, pale collar bone to the hollow between Sherlock's ear and jaw. He nipped at the sensitive skin there, pulling back with a smile as the detective hissed and threw his head back, allowing better exposure to his sensitive throat.

Instead of taking the invitation to pillage, Jim spun around to face doctor across the table. John was certainly enjoying the show; the criminal noted that his stormy eyes were fixed directly on Sherlock; his lips parted hungrily, strain beginning to show around the groin of his dark jeans. It was good to see the soldier at attention. But that attention could be better directed elsewhere.

As the detective moaned in protest at Jim's lack of contact and raised his head, the criminal strode around the table, light footsteps bringing him to rest behind John's chair. He wound his long arms around the blonde's strong torso, leaning over and nuzzling into the crook of his neck and shoulder. He lifted his dark eyes and gave Sherlock a challenging gaze as he ran his fingers through short blonde hair, then down John's chest. The detective's neck and cheeks took on the familiar flush of arousal as Moriarty began toying with the buttons on his doctor's cardigan.

"Whatdaya think, Johnny? Should we give our dear detective a show?" As he purred the words, he let his lips brush against the exposed skin just above John's collar. The slightest of moans escaped the doctor's lips as Moriarty's hands continued to travel over his be-cardiganed chest.

Two layers of fabric did nothing to dissipate the heat rolling off the seated doctor, and Jim allowed himself a small, self satisfied smile. If he ever needed proof that he was even better at sex than he was crime, this was it. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Both men he had threatened to kill, both men who tried to hunt him down and arrest him now sat spellbound; a testament to what Seb would call his "devilish charms", enhanced by the pair's well documented addiction to danger.

"You know, I've spent an awful lot of time thinking about you, doctor," he lilted. He brought lithe fingers up to the collar of John's shirt and started delicately working the buttons free. "I keep remembering what you felt like, pressed against me at the pool." He felt John's muscles tense at the mention of their rather unsexy, explosive laden first meeting. In response, Jim placed a series of small, sensual kisses on the doctor's jaw to soothe him.

"It's quite a feat to be so very attractive, even when strapped into that much semtex. But the way you took control sent shivers down my spine, John darrrrling." Once he had the first several buttons undone he slid his hands down the inside of the doctor's shirt, letting his smooth fingertips play against the ridges and plains of John's chest. The blonde curved his spine and pushed ever so slightly into Jim's touch. Slight wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. Jim wanted the good doctor to abandon control, wanted to make him so wild that he'd do things to Jim he had never even considered doing to his dear Sherlock. Somewhere inside that chiseled chest beat a monster's heart, and Moriarty wanted to unlock its cage and let the beast roam free.

"So what do you think? Care for a repeat? Maybe we'll actually get that explosion I was so looking forward to." Jim ran his willowy fingers back up, giving one of John's nipples an experimental tweak as he pulled his hands out of the doctor's shirt. That seemed to break down the restraints that kept John from unleashing his carnality.

The stocky blond stood up quickly, pushing the chair he had been seated it out of the way and grabbed Jim by his rather expensive lapels, pulling him closer. One strong hand came up between them, and John captured the underside of the criminal's chin between the webbing of his thumb and forefinger. He used his leverage to tilt the criminal's head back, forcing Moriarty up on his toes and into a kiss. The doctor tasted of tea and the slightest hints of mint toothpaste, and Jim drank in the sensation. For all his fevered imaginings of what John would feel like, reality was so much better.

John's tongue swept through the criminal's mouth, bold and firm. Had his lips not been otherwise occupied, Jim would have laughed. So forceful for such a gentle-seeming soul! The mastermind couldn't deny that the thought of what it might take to put the good doctor in a submissive position excited him. But for now, as the slightly taller man crushed their mouths together, he happily let John take the lead in hope of tempting out his inner brute. Well, mostly. Jim did make the other man fight for control of the kiss, pushing the doctor's advances back with his tongue and teeth. No sense in having the man feel like he hadn't earned it.

As a counter to Jim's move, John let go of his throat and wound his hand in the dark hair at the nape of the criminal's neck. The feeling was entirely different than when Sebastian did it. The sniper grasped his hair with hard, fast yanks meant to shock the system with lances of exquisite pain. These were strong, commanding tugs; forcefully but gently arching him back into a more vulnerable position. Before his quicksilver mind could quite grasp what was happening, the doctor had hooked his other arm around the criminal's narrow waist. Solid arms held Jim as John pushed him backwards slowly, until he no longer supported his own weight but instead was helplessly leaning back, suspended in the doctor's hold.

One broad palm pushed against the small of Jim's back, fingers splayed as the larger man used his leverage to force the criminal up into his embrace. The sudden rush of unsteadiness and lack of control stole the breath from him, and Jim's heart skipped a beat as his hands moved up to grasp desperately at John's biceps for some measure of equilibrium.

The stocky man merely tilted him back further, tongue still tangled in the criminal's mouth. A vague wave of dizziness washed over the dark haired man; some combination of breathlessness, imbalance, and the downward rush of his blood conspired to make him unnervingly pliant in the good doctor's arms. It was almost enough to send the smaller man into a panic. But a scant second before he started to fight the embrace John pulled him upright again, loosening his firm hold Jim's mouth as he pulled the smaller man to his feet.

Capable hands steadied the slender criminal as he rocked slightly, rediscovering his balance as his mind reeled. Damn. Well, it was certainly obvious why Sherly kept the man around. For all his commonplace habits and simple ways, Watson certainly did possess at least a few worthwhile talents.

A rumbling groan from across the table gathered both men's attentions as they separated. Sherlock laid back in the kitchen chair, robe flowing from his shoulders in navy waves as one hand worked rhymithly in his pyjama pants. Aquamarine eyes regarded both Jim and John with unabashed lust as the detective bucked up into his own grasp.

"Please," he gasped, tightening his fingers and increasing his tempo. "Don't stop on my account." Glancing up at John, Jim shrugged and smiled before reaching his hand up to the side of the doctor's face to pull him in for another kiss. John obliged, but instead of winding his arms around the criminal he brought them up to the other man's thin neck, fingers undoing the knot in his silk tie with a deftness Moriarty hadn't expected.

Once the tie was loosened, he pulled it free from collar of the criminal's shirt with a satisfying swish before breaking off the embrace with a wink, taking his prize and stalking over to Sherlock. Wordlessly, he looped the tie between both his hands and slipped the taut length behind the detective's neck, using the ligature as leverage to pull the taller man up into a kiss. Jim instantly saw the appeal of being the observer; the sight of Sherlock curving his body enticingly towards John with one hand still working between his long legs sent electric shivers down the criminal's spine.

John released the detective, who moaned and leveled the shorter man with a desperate, wanton gaze. The doctor merely put his hands on the insides of both Sherlock's elbows, pushing them back. Violinist's fingers released his throbbing member, and he gave a deep, ragged sigh as John pushed his arms behind his back.

The doctor gave his detective a quick peck on the nose before he circled around his seated form. With a practiced quickness, John twined the tie around Sherlock's angular wrists, securing them to the back of the chair. Jim regarded the two men with wide eyes and a slight tilt of his head. When John rose, it was easy for him to read the unspoken question on the criminal's mind.

"It did need to be done. You know how he is. Once he starts he can't help himself." Sherlock merely sighed and settled into his chair with as much stoicism as he could muster, given the ache in his woefully unattended cock. Jim sauntered over, circling the chair and nodding approvingly at John's work. When he had completed his circuit he leaned down, placing his face mere millimeters away from Sherlock's. He slid a refined hand over the outline of Sherlock's erection, causing the bound man to gasp and shudder. Jim continued to taunt the dark haired man with feather light teasing touches along his length as he leaned in and whispered against the other man's lips.

"Sherlock Holmes. All tied up and nowhere to go. Do you think you'll still be able to savor the presentation we're about to put on for you, Detective?"

"Oh GOD yes." The lanky detective's dulcet baritone was heavy with need. As he started to angle his hips to press himself up into Moriarty's hand the criminal withdrew. A few dancing steps carried his lithe form over to Watson. The lean criminal dropped to his knees as his fingers began to work at the doctor's fly. Cobalt eyes widened some in surprise, but the blonde offered no resistance. Instead, he ran one strong hand affectionately down the side of Moriarty's face, who leaned into the touch like a cat in heat. Wicked pink lips placed a kiss on the center of the doctor's retreating palm before he turned his head back to their captive detective, black eyes boring into Sherlock's electric blue with barely restrained hunger.

"Good boy," he murmured. "Enjoy the show, dear." Fluttering long, dark lashes, he turned his gaze up to John. "Enough with the games. Enough with the foreplay and the phone sex and the innuendos. Hurry up and FUCK ME ALREADY, Doctor." White hands flashed as he expertly freed John's thick length from his jeans, giving it a few firm pumps before positioning his mouth just above the crown. His tongue darted out from between his lips, caressing the tip to gather up the bead of precum that had gathered there. Theatrically rolling his head back and moaning in pleasure, he shot Sherlock a final smug gaze before exclaiming,

"Let the games begin!"

* * *

**Aaaaaand. The longest chapter yet with no actual smexy smex, 'cept the MorMor at the beginning. I finished writing and I was all like "hey, who tried to put plot in my porn?" No me gusta. That was not intentional, I swear. Next chapter will be nothing but smuttiness, I promise.**

**Lurvs,**

**Mazi**


	5. Chapter 5

**Well this took a good bit longer to get out than I expected, and I thank you for your patience! This'll be the last chapter beta'd / grammar dalek'd by Vivi Vivacious for awhile, so send any hatemail you have for subsequent chapters to her bitch-ass. I'll let you know when it's safe to stop.**

**Just as an FYI, I kind of went "Feast of Crows" on this chapter up and split it into two. I'll try not to GRRM it up and actually put forward the rest of the material forward sometime this century (Yeah. Still bitter.)**

**Standard 'I own nothing except my filth' disclaimer goes here.**

**Warnings: Voyeurism, light BDSM overtones, more angst than I originally intended. Oh. And gay sex. Let's please not forget the gay sex. The story pretty much wouldn't exist without it.**

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**All Apologies, Pt 5**

One problem with possessing a great intellect is the sheer number of thoughts that a well organized brain can juggle at once. For example, Sherlock mused to himself, it's perfectly possible for someone of his caliber of intelligence to split his attention evenly between three different lines of thought.

Thought process one: Voyeuristic arousal. _John. Jim. John and Jim. Not or. And. _

From the moment that he felt his own spine tingle as Jim had slid his hands down John's shirt, Sherlock noted that there were definite upsides to being an observer. There was something quite captivating in watching his two partners explore each other's forms. The stimulus of observing Moriarty and his doctor together was quite close to overloading Sherlock's sensory system. The detective's keen mind had devoted itself to memorizing every detail of each man's body; the feel, the taste, the smell of them both archived in what he liked to think of as the "dungeon" of his mind palace. Each piece of data he had collected was carefully applied to the scene unfolding before him.

He knew the exact pressure of each of Jim's touches, the way the tips of those willowy fingers would feel pressed up against John's pectorals. And he was intimately aware of what those fingers would be feeling; the subtle tension of John's skin, the light dusting of straw blond hair spread across compact muscle. Sherlock's brain fed him all the information at once; all the nerves his his body singing a sympathetic symphony of arousal for each touch, both given and received. Heated blood coursed through his body, rushing downward towards his groin at a breakneck speed.

This led directly to thought process two. Sexual Frustration. Easily enough solved by obeying his carnal urges and working himself with his own skillful fingers while observing John dip Jim down into a rather dominating kiss. The sensation did wonders for him; the way he felt when he rubbed a thumb across the head of his cock dulled all other thoughts ricocheting around in his brain.

God. Voyeurism agreed with him, as evidenced by the generous amount of precum leaking from his dick. He tightened his grip on the downward strokes, increasing pressure as he neared the base. Every two or three upward strokes were complemented by a rather enthusiastic thumbing of his head. The feeling was divine. His cock throbbed with building satisfaction while he watched a stunned Jim tense in John's arms. The sight of their lips pressed together and John skillfully fucking the criminal's mouth with his tongue was the perfect distraction from all other thoughts.

Or rather, it **was** the perfect distraction until John had stopped his display with the dark haired criminal and tied his hands to the back of the chair. Now, the line of sexual frustration seemed to be a problem with no immediate solution. His cock throbbed angrily; now neglected, its carnal demands had mounted to a nearly unbearable level of frustration. The phantom sensations his mind created using data collected from his observations of Jim and John writhing against each other were nearly as intense as real fingers on his body.

With self-pleasuring denied to him, it allowed Sherlock's unsated appetite roared through his mind like a forest fire, consuming nearly everything in its path. The torment of observation without sexual release was exquisite. His own mind worked against him; memorized touches inflicting delicious sensations on his flesh. In return, his body made sure that his brain was fully aware that the sensations were memories, accenting the overwhelming physical ache in his woefully ignored cock.

Each tiny shift in his position caused the fabric of his pyjamas to drag across the oversensitive skin of his erection, sending jolts of electricity coursing through his abdomen. Fingers of lightning traced up the underside of his cock; the mental manifestation of Jim's touches on John coupled with the confining sensation of his pyjamas made him ache with arousal in ways he had never previously experienced.

And that was good, because that overwhelming wave of information nearly distracted him from thought process number three. Three didn't have a descriptive phrase yet, because thought process three was something new. Something he hadn't felt before, something that he would need to analyze before naming.

In addition to the phantom sensations and very real sexual tension, something else lingered in both his flesh and spirit. Words spiraled in and out of his mind, inserting themselves into other unrelated threads of thought. This created a complicated tapestry of emotion that he was entirely unfamiliar with. Words like 'mine', 'off', 'alone', and 'need' danced in and out of other unrelated thought processes. It was quite distracting.

The disturbance was partially physical; he could feel the cold tendrils of it weaving through his rib cage and tangling around his heart. A heart which he observed was beating much faster than usual, and not solely from arousal. He could at least recognize the pain as psychosomatic as it appeared to increase any time Jim and John became more than teasingly intimate. The feelings had quieted some when both men turned their attentions to him, but now that he was bound and left to merely observe the alien sensation had returned with a vengeance.

Once his hands were bound and Jim dropped to his knees in front of his doctor, line three inserted itself into his mental process quite boldly. An almost queasy feeling spread through him as Jim playfully nudged the zipper on John's jeans with his nose before mouthing around the outline of his cock. But John's responding groan sent fiery threads of ecstasy curling through his abdomen. The uneasiness directly conflicted with the obvious arousal that Sherlock was also feeling; the contradictory sensations meeting in his mind like colliding trains.

In a moment of desperation, he decided to check his binds. The detective became momentarily distracted as his cock twitched angrily when Jim's fingers trailed down the zip of John's jeans, tugging the denim down around his hips. One pale hand caressed the outline of the doctor's rather impressive bulge before the other tugged his pants down just enough to free his erection. The pulsing sensation between his legs grew, and Sherlock focused on recapturing his train of thought. Binds. Ah yes. Those. The good doctor had tied him securely, but the silk tie holding him was certainly escapable. Still, it would require a good bit of moving about, and he surely wouldn't go unnoticed. _Or would I?_

Yet despite his disquiet, Sherlock could not seem to tear his aquamarine eyes away from the scene in front of him. He was absolutely riveted; each second that Jim worked his fine boned face against John's zip sent a jolt crashing through him that made his cock jump and every muscle in his body ache with want. But no matter the distraction, that dark something in the back of his mind kept whispering terrible, indistinct things that made his stomach roil. This was what he wanted, wasn't it? His body certainly seemed to think so, the erection he sported was without a doubt one of the most impressive he'd had in his relatively short time of being sexually active. Not, mind you, that he hadn't been trying to make up for lost time. One can fit quite a bit of shagging into a year and a half.

The criminal's head lowered, and John made a low growl that Sherlock immediately recognized as the "the tip of my dick just hit the back of Sherlock's throat" growl. Except his mouth wasn't wrapped around John's flesh. That was Jim's lips, Jim's throat. That made it Jim's groan. Funny, that. It shouldn't have been so disconcerting that they would both merit the same noise. _But is it so wrong to want John's reactions to be different? To want him to be satisfied with Jim, but not as satisfied as he is with me?_

Another cacophonous symphony of unfamiliar feelings crashed through him once again, and rather than release himself from his chair he focused on sorting out the different threads of emotion that created thoughtline three. If he could simply identify what the cause was he could logic his way through the thought process. And that would subsequently cause the pangs to stop wracking through him, and that damnable voice in his head to become quiet. It was easier planned than executed though; the way Jim's normally impeccable dark hair became disarrayed as John raked one hand through it was quite the distraction.

So were the brief flashes of white skin between the bottom of Jim's hairline and the collar of his jacket. The outline of midnight-dark hair against the deep blue of John's denim. The tantalizing glimpses Sherlock occasionally got of John's abdominal muscles and hipbone, outlined by dark fabric where his jeans had been pulled down some and his cardigan had ridden up. Jim brought one hand up to rest on John's firm thigh, and a line of fire shot from where Sherlock's breath caught in the tightness of his throat all the way down to his cock. The sensation caused his balls to tighten as his hips jutted outward in a helpless bucking motion, thrusting his cock helplessly into empty air.

Well, that just dragged him back to line one. Arousal was currently demanding his attention, distracting him from analyzing thought process three any further. At least for the moment. It wasn't surprising. After all, the **noises** Jim made! Breathy inhales through his nose each time he brought his lips back to John's tip. The soft sucking sounds as he moved his mouth along the doctor's thick length. And those throaty grunts he gave as John's crown nudged the back of his throat were downright pornographic. John was being nearly as obscene with his low growls of encouragement and lusty moans as his fingers curled affectionately in Jim's hair.

"Mmph. God, Sherlock. I don't know how you ever manage get anything done. His throat is so... fucking... narrow.." John's words coursed through the detective's senses like a flash flood, momentarily washing away anything but the oppressive sensation of unvarnished, carnal **want**. For a moment all Sherlock could focus on was the memory of Jim's throat tightening around him, the perfect image of that dark haired head bobbing rhythmically between his thighs. But as he watched the criminal skillfully working John, he saw those pale shoulders round slightly. Sherlock knew if he could see Jim's face, the very corners of lips would be tightened, giving away the slightest hint of a smug smile. _Pleased with himself for pleasing John. As if John was some sort of experiment, and this was the desired result. Bastard. But is that any different that what I've done?_

That thought caused the shock wave of anomalous feelings to crash through him again, and his heart felt as if it had been hit by lightning. The sensation dissipated as quickly as it had struck him, and when it passed he felt oddly hollow. An aching emptiness plunged through Sherlock's torso, finally condensing and settling in an icy ball in the pit of his stomach. But what was it? It hurt in a most unfamiliar way, but the detective strongly suspected that if he wasn't being driven to distraction by the nearly overwhelming eroticism of the display Jim and John were putting on he could pinpoint it.

Before the lean detective could fully devote his attentions to the analysis, John wound strong hands through Jim's raven hair and pulled him back, releasing his cock from the smaller man's mouth. A soft, wet sound accompanied the movement, and once again the detective's own cock throbbed in response. Sherlock couldn't see Jim's eyes but he knew from experience that those inky pupils were as blown wide with a lust that mirrored the one that flared in John's steely blue gaze. The diminutive criminal gave a longing sigh as John pulled him away, and Sherlock could exactly picture how the criminal's face would look, open-mouthed and straining against John's hand to recapture his prize.

"Jim." John's voice was little more than a low growl, something that Sherlock previously thought he had been the only one privileged enough to hear. Another sudden spasm ran through him (_anger? lust? resentment? frustration? fear? vexation? excitement? possessiveness?_) as he imagined Jim fluttering his sinfully long lashes, gazing up at John hungrily. The doctor's familiarly strong hands remained tangled in Jim's hair, and John used his grip to angle the criminal's head so he was looking directly up at him.

"Yes, Doctor Watson?" Sherlock noticed John's almost imperceptible shudder as Jim's prurient lilt caressed every syllable of his name. The unknown feeling struck him again, and heart clenched as if John's reaction caused an invisible band to tighten inside his chest.

"Before we go any further, do you have a safeword?" Jim merely laughed and pushed forward again, attempting to once more wrap his lips around John's erection. The doctor stopped him with a sharp tug on those wild, dark locks, and Jim rocked back on his knees slightly.

"Safeword, Jim. What is yours?" John's irises gained ground, his eyes showing more of their blue coloring as he focused on reading the smaller man kneeling before him. Sherlock noted the change in John's gaze, from full blown arousal to careful contemplation, and felt strangely pleased.

"Oh John! How quaint. I don't have one. Never have, actually." Even though he could only see the back of the other man's head, Sherlock knew that Jim was fixing John with one of his very best threatening smiles. The one that was just a hint of teeth between pink lips, that screamed 'try me, I dare you'.

"Gelsemium. There. Now you do." John's tone was no nonsense, even if his choice was strange. Despite the already overwhelming flood of information assaulting his brain (_John's cock. Jim's lips. Chest pains. John. God I need release. John. Jim. Gelsemium?_) he took note to investigate the significance his doctor put on a common shrub at a later point in time.

"How adorable. I shan't use it." Jim's voice had been lowered to a whisper, his tone insistent and almost threatening in spite of its huskiness; a quality likely brought on by John's rather enthusiastic mouth fucking. "And you can fucking well make me try, but it won't happen."

Appreciatively, Sherlock took note of his doctor's imperturbable expression. Stormy blue eyes gazed down on Jim with patience and composure, frustration nowhere on his face. Still in control. Not giving into the criminal's little power play. _Good._

"Your choice," the stalwart doctor replied smoothly, before using his unrelinquished fistful of Jim's dark locks to pull the smaller man to standing. Once upright, Jim brought his face closer to the blonde's, somewhat swollen and reddened lips just millimeters from John's mouth. This time the jolt that ran through Sherlock was very familiar; a wave of lust that crashed over his senses and pooled in his groin. Jim was always so lovely with a freshly fucked mouth. John's fist tightened in the criminal's hair in warning against too much disobedience, but he did nothing to limit the smaller man's movements.

"Does it make you feel powerful John? Does it make you hard?" Jim's voice was breathy and low, sex dripping off every lilting syllable. The sound of it distracted Sherlock from any further contemplation as to the nature of his strange chest pains. When Jim talked like that, it was damn impossible to give him anything but one's full attention. Apparently this rang true whether or not Moriarty was talking directly to Sherlock or not.

As the criminal's dexterous fingers traced a light line up the underside of John's cock, Sherlock felt his own twitch in sympathy. The doctor held steadfast, hips not moving a fraction in response to the teasing touch. He simply gazed at Jim with something perilously close to indifference; blue eyes radiating cool composure despite the featherlight touch.

"I bet it does. Knowing I've ordered people to die with this mouth. Knowing I've used that same mouth to suck you off. I've killed people with nothing more than words, John." Moriarty's tongue darted out, tracing over John's lower lip before retreating and Sherlock bit back a moan. They were both too absolutely beautiful. Jim's dark eyes were wild with lust, his elegant hands starkly outlined against the deep blue of Johns's jeans. And John. Oh, his John. John with his golden hair and stupid cardigan and his jeans hanging off his hips, exposing the doctor's rather impressive cock.

Sherlock noted that it was rather flushed; a ruddy color spread over the shaft that the detective associated with only the doctor's deepest of sexual desires and frustrations. And again, the unfamiliar pangs shot through him. They weren't as strong as before, but the sensation of his own erection straining against the flimsy material of his pyjamas would have distracted him from anything short of a mortal wound.

"Well, you're certainly putting it to much better uses now. I think your lips are far more suited to sucking cock, don't you?" John raised his free hand to the criminal's fine boned face. Sherlock felt a shiver in his own flesh as John stroked his cheekbone, trailing along to follow the elegant curve to his jaw.

"Mmhmm." Jim chuckled darkly. "You **do **like it, don't you? Knowing the things I've done, and yet still having me on my knees, your aching dick buried deep in my mouth? I bet it makes you want to fuck my throat that much harder." Jim's voice was musical, every word pitched perfectly to fit his lusty intonation.

"I did have my sights set on fucking other parts of you, James." Jim blinked slowly, and John took advantage of the momentary surprise Jim felt at hearing his full name to yank the criminal back by his hair.

He used his free hand to spin the smaller man around, and with a hard shove he pushed Moriarty's narrow frame up against the kitchen table. Still tugging on the criminal's dark locks, the stocky blond wrapped his unoccupied hand around Jim's narrow waist. Broad fingers tangled in the fine material of Moriarty's trousers to gain purchase. With a gentle push on the criminal's head timed with a pull back on his waist, John urged the other man to bend forward. The action forced the diminutive criminal to push his ass out against the hardness jutting from the doctor's jeans.

Sherlock was momentarily startled by Jim's response; a deep moan soaked in absolute need. It took him a moment to realize that the noise had emanated from him, not the black eyed man John had bent over the table. Once the captive detective managed to settle himself, he realized that Jim was making noises of his own. Moriarty emitted thin, keening whines during the normally empty spaces between deep shuddering breaths. It seemed the delicate criminal moaned in perfect time with each of John's taunting thrusts, and Sherlock found that he couldn't help but answer those delicious sounds with moans of his own.

The doctor pressed himself into Jim's expensively clad backside, rolling his hips against the smaller man. Consumed with his own vexation, Sherlock luxuriated in knowing that the consulting criminal was likely at least as frustrated as he was. John was so good at that; tormenting and teasing flesh until the complicated latticework of his thoughts collapsed inward on themselves, leaving Sherlock's normally magnificent brain barely functional enough to control basic responses like breathing and blinking. Knowing that Jim was feeling the full brunt of John's overwhelming presence was somewhat of a salve to his own frustrations, even if it did make the detective's stomach a bit cold to think about.

Unsurprisingly, Jim hadn't quite given himself over to John's control. Despite the restraining grip of John's hands on his waist and hair, the criminal bowed himself up off the table, pushing back into the doctor's thrusts with force and urgency. Rather than the (quickly-becoming-all-too-familiar) unknown lance of sensation bolting through his chest, Sherlock felt smug despite his own restraints and neglection. Wild as he was, the detective had no doubt in his mind that the dark eyed criminal severely underestimated the sheer control that his doctor could exert over a body.

He fondly remembered learning those lessons himself, mind reeling with the remembered intensity of the release he achieved by succumbing to John's insistent ministrations. John had pushed and tormented, setting a maddeningly slow pace and taking control of the situation away from Sherlock one slow thrust at a time. The detective's cock ached at the memory; the thought of him writhing in need and urgency underneath the weight of his doctor; all cleverness and control abandoned in favor of letting John push him just a little closer to the edge of orgasm.

And now his lovely doctor was prepared to strip Jim down in much the same manner. (_John. Methodical. Unyielding._) Sherlock felt his cock jump in anticipation of watching the ex-Captain divest the criminal of his clothing, his pretenses, his smugness, his wit, his control, and finally his thoughts. What would it be like to see Jim become completely undone; gasping and unraveled in the same fashion that he so enjoyed inflicting on Sherlock? If he believed the sensations coiling tightly in his abdomen, it would fall somewhere between highly erotic and outright orgasmic.

The anticipation of watching John take Jim apart was strong enough to finally force the hollow, uncomfortable feeling inside him to the back of his mind. John released Jim's hair and waist, wrapping solid arms around to the front of the criminal's narrow hips to begin working at his zip. As John's fingers skillfully undid his expensive trousers, Jim turned his head to the side to catch Sherlock's aquamarine eyes with his own dark gaze. John worked one hand inside Jim's trousers, roughly palming the hardness there, chuckling in the back of his throat at Jim's lack of undergarments. Staring into Sherlock's eyes, the smaller man pointedly thrust into the doctor's hands. John continued to stroke him with just the flat of his palm, and Jim bit his lip and gave a delightful moan as he held eye contact with the captive detective. When John's strong grip wrapped itself around Jim's length and gave a strong warning squeeze, the noise that emitted from the criminal's ivory throat finally forced the last of Sherlock's reticence to the back of his mind.

There'd be enough time for sorting out the unidentifiable feelings later; for now his mind was lost in the process of becoming rapidly unable to focus on anything but the sight of the good doctor so skillfully beginning to tame Moriarty. As was so very often the case when it came to both John and Jim, eroticism won out over conscious thought. Sherlock finally relented and gave himself over to the carnal enthrallment that filled him. The idea of Jim wholly overcome by John was the fucking sexiest thing Sherlock thought he would ever have the chance to witness, even if Jim's impending surrender lasted a mere moment. Enraptured, distracted, and aroused beyond belief the strange pangs became a distant memory as the lean detective allowed himself to finally relax into the scene unfolding before him.

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**Soooo... Sherlock and his POV ran away with that chapter, but from here on all POV's should be part of a more balanced breakfast. As always; reviews, follows and favorites will be showered with love and affection and kept in my freezer with all my other favorite things. Suggestions are also welcome, so if there's something you'd like to see the boys get up to feel free to let me know.**

**Ta Loves!**

**Mazi**


	6. Chapter 6

**Alright. Everybody knows the drill by now, right? I don't own anything but the filth. Warnings go something like: BDSM overtones, angst, and gaygaygaygaygay sex ahead. Minor breathplay as well, so please skip if that doesn't float your bathtub. Also, this is unbeta-d so let me know if you see a glaring error and I'll fix it and smother you with editorial love.**

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**All Apologies, Pt. 6**

Locking eyes with Sherlock as John Watson forcefully bent him over the kitchen table and began rutting up against him was quite possibly the most fun that the world's only consulting criminal had in a week. As John stroked his palm along the underside of his erection, Jim gave a few additional moans as he stared down the captive detective. Each subsequent noise was just a touch louder and lustier than it would have been naturally, and he delighted in the well veiled anger and confusion that flashed behind Sherlock's aquamarine eyes.

_That's right, Sherly. C'mon pretty. I can see that jealousy burning in you. I __**told **__you. I __**told **__you I'd burn the __**heart **__out of you. I thought it'd be done by fucking you and abandoning you, by making you want something and denying it to you. It would've been so fun to watch you fall apart like the junkie you are, denied your fix. But this is soooooo much better. Your beloved John Watson, fucking me right in front of you. I don't have to do a damn thing except enjoy it. And you don't even know you love him! Oh Sherly, Sherly, Sherly. You're going to burn the heart right out of __**yourself**__._

A sudden, hard pressure on his groin snapped Moriarty out of his internal reverie. A soft, genuine gasp of surprise forced its way from his throat. It was immediately followed by an impassioned moan as John wrapped his fingers around Jim's shaft and began to slowly but firmly work the criminal's length in his fist.

It wasn't until John gave him that tight, hard (almost too hard) tug on his cock that Moriarty realized that he may have underestimated the power of Doctor John Watson's carnal techniques. They were so different from Sebastian's; fucking** that** man was engaging in a constant struggle to see who would be tamed and subdued. His sniper's technique for battle was to respond with smoldering rage, feral passion, and precise application of pain that made Jim frantic for more. Watson was stoic in comparison. That stoicism did not mean, as Jim was coming to find out, that he was any less commandeering.

Where Sebastian made judicious use of Jim's urgency, stoking it into a towering bonfire until the criminal simply **had** to take what he needed, John was content to let the criminal smolder. The damned doctor seemed entirely unwilling to alter his own pace or plans a fraction to accommodate for Jim's needs. If it weren't for John's strong hand wrapped around his cock and the hot, open mouthed kisses the doctor pressed to his besuited back, it would have been very easy to believe that John didn't actually give a fuck if the criminal enjoyed himself or not. The idea was unexpectedly arousing. And with Sherlock's beautiful whimpers and moans emanating from nearby, Jim thought he was perhaps harder than he had ever been in his entire life.

The idea of John, Sherlock's beloved and loyal dog, fucking him senseless on the stupid kitchen table in their ridiculous flat was heady enough. Shit, John being willing to simply **entertain** the idea of fucking him had been the basis of their lengthy phone sex games. Now, it was happening. And to know that John was doing it in front of the detective himself, that all Jim had to do was glance over to see the lanky, beautiful man restrained and writhing in his chair... Well. It certainly made each sensation that much sweeter. To know that Sherlock didn't have to imagine the scene (because Jim would have invariably fucked John anyway, will he or nil he), but was bound and very nearly forced to witness their coupling was headier than any drug.

And god the noises he was making! That dulcet baritone hovered somewhere between anguish and ecstasy, moaning in time with each of John's pumps as if it was his very own cock that was being so skillfully attended to. Jim risked another of John's punishing squeezes to steal a glance at Sherlock. The ensnared detective pushed his hips upwards, thrusting his cock into the very-likely unsatisfactory friction of his pajamas. Ivory skin was flushed pink; heat spreading through the lanky detective's neck and torso, and those sharp sapphire eyes were fixed directly on Jim as John pumped his hand around the criminal's cock. The look was quite heated, a combination of lust and anger that had Jim bucking his hips into John's hand in response to his increased arousal.

Jim could practically feel the heat rolling off Sherlock; the entire room felt stifling and almost too small with those big blue eyes fixed on him so intently. Normally Jim could make those eyes flutter closed, but without any stimulation other than visual they remained open wide. Jim wondered if he could truly remember the last time he saw Sherlock so aroused with open eyes. It was captivating, if a bit claustrophobic. The barest slivers of blue highlighted deep black irises. The study in contrast was quite breathtaking. And not merely the contrast in colors, but the conflict of emotion that repeatedly washed over the detective's face. _Lust. Anger. Ecstasy. Uncertainty. _

_**Delicious.**_

While Jim's attentions drifted back to the bound detective, the stocky blond behind him unexpectedly pulled his hand away from Jim's aching length and stepped back. The criminal gasped at the loss of contact; head spinning from the sensations still coursing through him. He half thought to bring his hands from where they rested on the table and take care of things himself, but instead he arched his head over his shoulder, trying to track Watson's movements.

The doctor was made quick work of divesting himself of both cardigan and buttoned shirt, exposing his chest. At the sight of the star-shaped scar marking the ex-soldier's shoulder Jim's heart jumped in his chest. There was something so fucking **sexy** about a good wound. The smaller man ran his tongue along his lower lip, overcome with the desire to turn himself around and latch his mouth to the network of thick, jagged lines in that tan skin. Moriarty's curiosity was staggering. Would John's pectorals jump as he used his teeth to worry those risen edges? How exactly would the good doctor moan if Jim bit down into the tough flesh, making his own mark overtop of the existing nexus of scar tissue?

Just as Jim's fascination finally spurred him to move, a now shirtless John stepped forward and pushed his hand against the small of the criminal's back. The pressure applied was quite firm, bordering on uncomfortable, and Jim was effectively pinned down again. He kept his elbows bent and hands flat on the table; it gave him a bit of leverage to push back into John. Well, it was effectively his **only** leverage to push back into John. But that wasn't the most vexing part of his predicament.

_How does he do that? How does he know the exact moment I'm ready to act and step in just before? Infuriating sod. Oh. OH. That's quite nice._

John had taken a substantial handful of Jim's ass and gave it a hard squeeze before steadying himself behind the criminal once more. Placing his hands on either side of the smaller man's waist, he lowered himself so that his bare torso was nearly flush with Jim's still-clothed back. Once steadied, he began to nip playfully at the criminal's shoulders through his expensive suit coat, and Moriarty moaned in appreciation. The bites stung in a most delicious way, but it wasn't nearly enough. Jim ached to feel John's teeth buried in him. He wanted to be bruised, bled, and marked while Sherlock watched on.

"Aren't you going to take my shirt and jacket off?" The dark haired man made sure that his voice was pitched perfectly; low and throaty, with vowels drawn out in just the right way. Sebastian had told him once that his voice actually created physical sensation, like nails running down his back. It had seemed overly poetic at the time, but Jim certainly hoped that Watson could feel his words rake over him now. Anything to spur the doctor on. For fuck's sake, the man hadn't even removed his trousers yet! How could one man have so much fucking _**patience**_?

"Why should I? I have access to everything I need right here," Watson growled, taking another firm handful of buttock and kneading it roughly. Jim gave another shuddering moan, and John continued to fondle his ass for a few moments longer than strictly necessary. The dark haired man felt himself relax into the touch. It was unyielding but not quite bruising, elegantly toeing the line between tenderness and callousness. Rough and domineering, without needing to resort to pain. It was...

_New. Different. Interesting. And __**oh**__! So wonderful._

Satisfied with Jim's reaction, those skilled surgeon's hands worked their way back to the criminal's waist and his unopened fly. At first Jim thought John was going to start stroking him again, but those maddening hands simply moved to the buckle of his belt and removed the supple strip of leather from his belt loops.

Quicker than Jim would ever have credited the man for, John lifted himself off the criminal's narrow back. In an instant he had looped the belt through itself, creating a kind of makeshift leash. That loop quickly went over Moriarty's head, the expensive leather settling just below his adam's apple. Once he had it in place John increased the tension on the belt, temporarily constricting the smaller man's airway. Jim tried to find the breath to gasp in both surprise and appreciation, but nothing came. The seal around his throat was quite snug, allowing no air to pass through.

_Fucking flexible god__**damn**__ Prada leather._

Jim tried to count off seconds, but his head swam as he tried to calculate how many had already passed. Before he could settle on a number, John released the tension and he took a few great, heaving breaths to fill his aching lungs. The infuriating doctor merely responded with a chuckle and an almost playful slap to Jim's ass.

"I'm going to leave this here," he cautioned as he released his hold on the belt, letting the tail of it trail down Moriarty's spine. "But I want you to know the very **second** that you do something stupid I'm going to throttle you again. Right?"

"Right." _Shit. __**Fuck.**__ What was that?_ The word had just sort of come out unbidden, raspy and hoarse from both the belt and his previous moaning. But before he could dwell too much on what had just happened, Jim became acutely aware of John Watson tugging his trousers down. _Finally. __**Finally.**_ John's fingers traced over the bare flesh of his ass. The skin to skin contact was intoxicating; each trail of John's hands leaving heated, tingling aftershocks in their wake. Lost in sensation, the smaller man started when one of John's feet planted itself atop the juncture of his trousers.

"Step out now." Jim refused simply out of spite, still angry for his earlier acquiescence. He felt rather than saw the doctors responding shrug. John's hand simply reached out and grabbed at the belt tethering Moriarty's slender neck and gave it a good, sharp tug. The ex-Colonel gradually increased the pressure, still firmly pressing down on the smaller man's back to pin hips against the table. The combination forced Jim to arch his back almost painfully to avoid being completely choked. His cock throbbed in time with the blood rushing in his ears from lack of oxygen, and just as the edges of his vision started to darken the doctor let his lead go slack. The criminal fell forward onto the table, panting with each breath.

"Are you ready to take your pants off now? Or should I just bind you up and go tend to our poor Sherlock? He's certainly more obedient than you are. And despite the fact that he's been shagging around I think he deserves a good hard fuck more than you do."

The resulting stutter in Jim's heart wasn't from momentary panic at the thought of John actually following through with his ridiculous threat. Certainly not. It was a perfectly normal biological reaction to the pleading groan that escaped Sherlock at the mention of his name.

"God John... please. **Please**." Two sets of eyes turned to inspect the bound detective, gaze drawn to Sherlock by his lusty outcry. His skin was flushed, every muscle in his lithe body pulled as taut as his bow string. A darkening wet patch stained the front of his pyjama bottoms and Jim could easily imagine how the detective's beautifully flushed and leaking cock would look were it exposed. The moment hung silently between the three men for a moment; both John and Jim focused on Sherlock, while Sherlock's blue eyes centered solely on his doctor.

The air of quiet tension shattered as Jim heard John's surprisingly deep voice rumble out from above him.

"Please what, Sherlock?"

"God. Oh god John... please. **Please **fuck me. Please..." The detective's baritone hovered somewhere between demanding and pleading. Jim felt something not unlike envy momentarily pulse through him. Of all the times he'd made Sherlock beg, and those were quite numerous indeed, he never - not once - managed to get that tone out of him. Jim immediately recognized the difference. When Sherlock begged for Moriarty he was begging for the sex, the completion, his fix. When the detective begged for John it was simply that. He was begging for John Watson the man. Not what he could provide, but simply what he was.

_This is fucking __**priceless**__. _The criminal pondered what he could do to escalate things, ways that he could tempt John's attention away from Sherlock and back onto him. Fortunately, it seemed that the good doctor was already a step ahead of him.

John's hand dropped the belt again, letting the leather tail trail across one of the Moriarty's thin shoulders. That hand then traced its way down the mastermind's spine, causing his nerve endings to send pulses of delicious tension directly to the smaller man's groin. The hand in the small of Jim's back released it's pressure, instead sliding a few centimeters down to the criminal's round buttocks, spreading them slightly. One broad fingertip traced the ring of Jim's puckered entrance, and the criminal's entire body spasmed in response. John simply repeated the motion, causing the criminal's narrow hips to stutter against the table. But the doctor's entire focus was still fixed on the moaning, writhing mess that was Sherlock.

"What, Sherlock? Do you wish this was you?" John punctuated the question by letting his hand slide lower between Jim's spread legs, caressing the soft skin of his perineum. That actually caused the criminal to cry out in pleasure, and he moved his hips back against John's hand to encourage more of the same. But true to the doctor's methods, he simply pulled back a bit, letting Jim's breathing and pulse settle for a moment before continuing to stroke the sensitive area at his own torturously slow pace.

"Do you ache to be the one bent over this table? To have me fuck you deep and hard while you scream my name?" Sherlock appeared to be incapable of speech any longer, simply answering his doctor with an strangled, agonized cry that left no doubt as to what his answer was.

"Or is it that you just don't like me playing with Jim here? Hmm, Sherlock? Do you think you're the only one allowed to have a little fun on the side?" John shifted his hand so that the base of his thumb caressed the ring of muscle between Jim's pale cheeks, while his middle finger continued to stroke the overstimulated skin of his perineum. The position couldn't have been comfortable for John's hand or arm, but it certainly provided stimulus necessary to work Jim back into a writhing, gasping mess.

_Oh christfuckinggoddamn that feels so good._

There was something wholly appealing to the idea of John Watson using him like some sort of demented living sex toy; tempting and torturing Jim simply to make Sherlock's blood boil. The sensation of it all was heady, and Jim felt nearly drunk. The power, John's hands, the thrill of a well executed plan coming together, and Sherlock's frustration all set his abdomen to coiling tightly, and he could feel just how fucking close he was to begging for release himself.

"You're going to watch me fuck him, Sherlock. You're going to know exactly how it felt every time you left the house without me, wearing your 'fuck me' cologne with product in your hair. Though if I had known Jim was this good of a shag I wouldn't have waited quite so long to try it for myself."

"I bet this perfect ass of his is so tight, isn't it?" Sherlock merely let his head loll back on his shoulders, hips still thrusting as if he no longer had any control over their movements. "Does he make you beg for it? Make you beg to fuck him? You would, too. You're shameless, Sherlock. A right proper slut." The detective squirmed in his chair again, lovely pleading noises emanating from his exposed, pale throat.

As lovely as it all was, this cocktail of anger, confusion, lust, pleasure and jealousy, Jim had taken all the teasing he possibly could. The heat in his groin was nearly unbearable; every centimeter of skin oversensitized and smoldering where John brushed against it. He certainly wasn't going to beg. Jim Moriarty begged for noone. But he could certainly make John feel the same level of desperation that he felt.

"John Watson, look at you," he purred, wriggling sensually against the table as if his body was aching for any contact of any kind. "Captain Watson, reducing the world's only consulting detective and the world's only consulting criminal to wanton, writhing messes." In response to the dark eyed man's words, John increased the pressure of his strokes between Jim's legs. Instantly, the the criminal's writhing went from theatrical to genuine.

"Mmm," John hummed in the back of his throat. "Captain. I like that. Continue to call me Captain. Understood, Jim? Or there will be punishment." Instead of inflicting pain to drive his point home, John simply removed the fingers that had been rubbing against Jim. The smaller man loosed a keening whine at the loss of pressure, and he felt rather than saw John's responding smirk.

"Understand?" A featherlight brush of finger against his entrance caused the criminal's entire body to shudder against the table. God yes. Calling John 'Captain' for the duration of their shag was an agreeable price to pay, as long as the blonde doctor kept him feeling this way.

"Aaah. Y-yes Captain."

One strong hand trailed gathered the lead draped over Jim's shoulder, straightening it and drawing it out over the curved line of the other man's back. Once settled in place, John ran an affectionate hand over the leather that ran along Jim's spine, settling into and then pressing firmly down on the small of his back. "Stay," was the issued command.

Then John's presence behind him was gone; he heard the infuriatingly patient man rummaging around in a drawer. It felt like forever, but finally John came up behind him again, and this time he ran a slicked finger down the cleft of Jim's ass. He spread the other man slightly, and used the pad of his now-lubricated index finger to rub small circles around the puckered entrance. Each round of movement caused Jim to thrust his narrow hips, desperately seeking relief for the overwhelming tension thrumming through every nerve.

With painstaking slowness, Watson began to push one finger inside Jim, who gasped and tried to push back against the invading digit to quicken the pace. In response, the doctor locked one forceful hand around the criminal's hip, steadying the smaller man and holding him in place. He continued to push slowly inward, and Jim could feel the slow burn of intrusion spread through his body like oil atop water. The sensation of John's finger inside him hovered around the edges of pain, coating him with unbearable want, but did little to penetrate the surface of his hunger.

Finally the other man's index finger was seated inside him, gently thrusting and curling to open him up. Jim knew at this angle, with the length of the doctor's fingers taken into consideration, that it was unlikely the other man would be able to hit his prostate until his middle finger was added. The thought of having to wait was unbearable.

_How the fuck is Watson managing? For that matter, how is Sherlock? Is this how fucking in 221B __**always**__ happens? Painfully slow and overwhelmingly intense? How the fuck have they ever managed to foil any of __**my**__ plans, let alone get the shopping or anything else done?_

With a growl, Moriarty pushed back against John as best he could. It wasn't much, but a slight wiggle of his hips at least sent a jolt of sensation pulsing through him.

"Mmm. C'mon, Captain. Is that the best you've got? I can't imagine our dear Sherly would be satisfied with **this**. Maybe that's why he keeps coming to see me, hmmmm?" Jim smirked as he felt John's whole body tense behind him in response to the barbed words.

_There. Thaaaaaat ought to do it. Any minute now, angry fucking will ensue. _

But instead of the punishing pace that he expected the stocky blond to take, the other man simply withdrew his finger from Jim's entrance. Jim gasped at the sudden sensation of emptiness; evidently the doctor's technique had stretched him more than he thought it did. The restraining fingers on his hip uncurled and released him, and Jim was about to spin himself over so he could see what was going on when he heard the telltale wet sounds of more lubricant being applied to flesh. In response, he curved his spine and thrusted his hips outward slightly, presenting John with the best access he could given his positioning.

When the other man's digits returned to Jim's tight hole instead of the cock he expected, the criminal had to bite back a frustrated scream.

_John. __**Fucking.**__ Watson. Completely immovable. Stubbornness personified. Frustratingly slow and dense and..._

When two thick fingers penetrated him with little preamble or warning Jim was unsuccessful in holding back his pleasured, if surprised scream. The familiar burn of being filled returned, and John's fingers scissored inside him at a maddeningly steady pace. As one hand expertly stretched the criminal, John brought his hand back to Jim's hip, resuming his restraining hold on pale flesh and delicate bone. The doctor's pace was no quicker than before, but there was one crucial difference.

With every fourth or fifth stroke John's fingers would curl and twist inside him _just so_, deftly seeking out and brushing against the taut bundle of nerves hidden deep inside him. Each touch sent sparks shooting through Moriarty's mind; white hot electricity through his veins. His spine tingled with currents of delight, and the dark haired man had to bite his lip to bleeding to keep from demanding (_Begging for? No, demanding._) more. Instead, he gathered his wits about him as best he could, and in between those pleasuring thrusts he managed to growl out a few carefully selected words.

"Mmahhh... G-god, oh **god** _**Captain**_. If you can fuck me like that with your fingers I can't imagine what you'll be able to do to me with that rather impressive cock of yours." The words came out breathy and panting, but Jim was very nearly beyond caring. He wanted, needed John inside him.

"You've got quite the vocabulary Jim. Describe it."

"Wh-what?" Jim stuttered, and John pressed and held his fingers against his hypersensitive prostate. "C-captain!" he managed to gasp out, and the doctor released the increased pressure, returning instead to the previous maddeningly paced stroking.

"Tell me what it feels like, me fucking you. If you stop talking, I'll stop doing **this**." He thrust his two fingers deeply into Jim again, rapidly stroking them against the sensitive bundle of nerves inside him before pulling back. "Understood?"

Thee dark haired man's entire body thrashed wildly in response, and he managed to gasp what sounded like an affirmative. Almost instantly, John began a pointedly slow withdrawal of his digits, causing Moriarty to buck back into his hand as best he could.

"Yes, C-captain," he moaned. Satisfied, John eased his fingers back into Jim's narrow canal, continuing to move them inside him at his torturously slow pace.

"Keep your hands palm down on the table." Another few thrusts of John's fingers and both Jim and Sherlock were canting their hips in anticipation. "And **speak**."

* * *

**Well, Jim's a wordy little bastard isn't he? And he's has run off with the next chapter at the very least. So you'll be stuck with his POV for a little while. Remember that reviews, comments, suggestions (particularly kink suggestions) and the like are so very special to me and are kept in the creepy box under my bed where I keep all my most cherished possessions. **

**Well, ta until next time!**

**Mazi**


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